Imagine ghosts,

confined-incomplete to a place.

Never holding the desire

to be a phantom in silhouette,

spoken about from a detached voice,

etched onto a page of verse

that was written, with or without

love or adoration

by those who told storied emotions.


Entities, strewn of inky black phantoms

running together over dead-leafed parchment,

never wanting to be sentenced to life

extended, with a possibility of immortality,

long after desires have flickered

and time has passed.


Shelves of text, ancient to modern, filled

with others who never asked, living

among new creations spawned from old.

A life borne into being by pen and type.

Stories of private moments,

real or imagined, unveiled for the world

to judge levels of discretion and decency.


Held and cherished until the close.

A match struck is able to breach

four hundred fifty-one degrees of misery,

violated by time. Then, once again,

the printed return

back to shelves to gather dust, lost.

Always remembered, only to be forgotten,

over and over again… and again.


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