A Poets Ghost
From salt-stung coasts and logic’s end;
My pulse awakes beneath your pen.
A ghostly hunting throughout the night
And a steady drum near a candle light.
For every moment these ink lines take;
My spirit grows and begins to wake.
To feed the marrow of your crave
It threads the static of your days.
To etch the light in jagged ways;
Pinned fast beneath a phantom gaze.
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