NOW WITH HASTE

The poets ghost
Voice unheard
Save scratching pen
Falling verse
Beneath a bleak
Autumn sky
Rivers run
Words they cry.

Silent shadow
Breathes at night
Lonely eyes
Devoid of light
The loneliness
In death evades
The cold room
With antique shades.

Its desk and chair
The inkstand calls
Its constant taunt
Fills the walls
A ghostly hand
A muses face
Falling moment
Now with haste.