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
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