The Poet’s Lament

a poet’s heart is stitched with ghosts inked in sorrow, bled in prose each word a whisper, a breath, a sigh woven from shadows that never die by candle’s flicker, by midnight’s call the verses rise, the echoes fall secrets carved in tattered rhyme lingering past the reach of time the quill, a blade, it cuts so deep wounds that fester, wounds that weep yet in the dark, the lines take shape a ghostly hand, a silken scrape no rest for souls that write in pain their voices spill like autumn rain trapped in pages, bound in ink forever speaking from the brink so read these words but read them well for poets live where phantoms dwell their hearts still beat in lines they weave even in death, they never leave