Poet's Spectre, My Ghosts Are Not Diaphanous
Beauty that is mirrored is that beauty?
Absent love leads phantom duty
My running pen speaks not so bright
In its ink hide ghosts by night
It’s intimate with willing paper
White bond drinks up all black vapor
The curves, the contours, strokes—I gape!
Appear in spectral words of shape
And whisper sounds from verse I fashion
But lacking substance, wraith-like passion
Attempts the work of a lover missing
Does not convince my lip she’s kissing.
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