GHOSTS OF INK

Ghosts of the town
At empty tables sit
The smell of paint
To nature lit
As the old gas lamps
Tarnish and age
An unknown poet
Fills a page.

The living
Do not see the pain
That over centuries
Hope betrayed
Living hand to mouth
For a few coins sold
In destiny
To not grow old.

The cobbles
Too hard to weep
Each granite step
Lulls to sleep
The dreamer
With eyes so bright
The gaiety and laughter
Of each repeated night.