ghost again

some poets pen in their own blood their verse rebuffed to red the mud its sweet song fails for biased ears and only draws those friendly tears the garlands come so far and few then wither ‘fore the twilight dew so should a stroke not find fair flesh then sure those laurels meet a thresh this bitter taste of what was then now finds my words unseen again they dance like bright upon the sea yet naught a praise will come to be their worth and virtue fail to hatch responses, short a back to scratch thus why do I press hard, this fight? cuz damned if I don’t live … to write I mean, damn … how I love to write.