Email Poem

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Poem

The kindred spirit, whisks towards the moon. 
I no longer fear it, for the night is soon. 
A ghost full of rage, springs for the sun. 
As I turn the page, the scripts almost done. 
A march towards peace, a step towards ruin. 
A hollowed crease, a reasoning proven. 
The script calls for a plan, and you’ve taken action. 
Where is your man, the once loving attraction?
As we proofread the draft, do you shed a tear?
So many scenes we laughed, but the end is my fear.
We called for longer writing, more chances for life. 
We got caught amongst the fighting, a standstill in strife. 
Resume the scene, yet cut to the ghost alone. 
Knowing where he’s been, only knowing what he’s shown. 
The spirit has fled, the moans fill the halls. 
The day they’d wed, an animosity calls. 
The ghost sits in silence, a heart filled in violence. 
End the show, cut all the lights. 
The tears flow, calling forth blights.
The curtain falls, the spirit calls. 
The ghost decays, his presence unneeded. 
His heart still plays, with hope once seeded. 
The audience left, now there is no one. 
The time was theft, the life undone.

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