Ghost’s Flight

Ghosts oft flock to things of old,
amidst the ancient parlor dust –
There they lay licking wounds
of things they never did….

And so what could it be, my ghastly friend,
this thing undone clear to your end –
which makes you sing so wearily –
That in my chambers you should creak,
and bang my pipes –
incessantly?

The night owl calls yet you disdain,
toiling havoc in your domestic reign –
as we, mere mortals scatter in fear
when your shadow’s stain comes oh so near.

But nay, not I, – shouts my quaking breath,
I shant cower from your prolonged death
for you are naught but pickled soul –
who failed to live, and lived to fail –
for which I find little console.

So if you’ve wings then fly away,
or drag your carcass to another day.
For if you should ever materialize –
I’ll give you death you can recognize…

 

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© 2014 John Allen Richter
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