Was it just wind in the garden, I know not,
For it shone but briefly, like the moon come dusk,
A shining, yet veiled thing,
Trailing its ghostly glow.
From this wispy spirit, came a low, sweet song
Carried by the wind, loud, then gentle,
To my ears, still flesh.
It sang of a sadness, a dream,
A lust for a quick death.
'Twas poetry, sweet song.
But ah, I now realize, this ghost was my sweet,
And died by the hand of its lover.
© Copyright 2016 brucek. All rights reserved.
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