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.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: February 22nd, 2026 02:54
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 32
Offline)
Comments3
Good write N.
thanks and much appreciated
This captures well the poet that is obsessed with getting down transient and fading emotions on paper before they drift away. Well done
spot on comments, thanks for reading much appreciated
You are most welcome
That ghost seems to be waiting for me every morning Norman to write the words it had come up with when I was asleep. Fine words.
Andy
Thanking you for reading always much appreciated
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