Imagine ghosts,

confined to a place


never holding the desire

to exist

as phantom’s

in a silhouettes of parchment,

spoken about

from detached voices,

reading of lives

etched into pages of verse

written, with or without

love or adoration

by those who told

storied emotions.



strewn of phantoms

inky black

and running together

over dead-leaves of 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 amid new creations

spawned from old.

a life borne into being

by pen and type.

Intimate stories

and private moments,

real or imagined,


for the world to judge

discretion and decency.


A single match struck

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.


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