The Ghost By John Lars Zwerenz

THE GHOST Alone in my castle, a plaything of the breeze, Indolent and tepid, my leisure filled hours Lead my soul astray from the good, narrow path. In the black tiers above me demons mock and laugh, As more of them assemble below in the leafless bowers: Those ghastly dark gardens bereft of scarlet trees. I wonder as the November night In a timeless lassitude of pain Reserves for my all too sullen heart A melancholic trail to the light To allow me to depart From the tumult of the ceaseless rain. Lo! What is that specter I behold wide eyed Carrying a noose with a candle in her other hand? She is none but a ghost full of Satan's contraband To place that rope around my neck - coming forth to have it tied! JOHN LARS ZWERENZ {C} 2018