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.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: October 7th, 2026 02:54
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 52
- Users favorite of this poem: Lorenz, sorenbarrett, Teddy.15, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments6
I love this evocation ! Taste of cursed absinthe and inspired madness .
Many thanks my friend, glad it hit home, much appreciated
The meter and cadence of this poem made it special. It showed good rhyme as well as an ornament and the message was enchanted in fog with each line emerging from it magically. Most lovely and a fave
Most kind my friend, always much appreciated, thanking you
You are very welcome
What a fabulous atmosphere in this. 🌹
Thanks and appreciation for read my friend
Good write N. Ghosts at the bus stop?! lol.
And old bones lol
Oh, Norman, you've got me wanting to wander through an old English town after midnight! Though knowing my luck, I'd stumble into a pub full of dead poets arguing over whose work deserved publication. And I'd probably join the argument! 😂🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thats poets for you lol, thanks and appreciation friend
Very good write Norman, those ghosts are always there even if only in our minds.
Andy
Thats true my friend, thanks much appreciated read
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