THE GHOST WHO SELLS MEMORIES
Lurking around corners – on groggy
Gas lit nights, whispering death to this age of the machine.
See the tender white crosses-row-on-row
Oh! so-many windswept nights of swirling snow.
Creaking branches catch the whiff of Lady Fortune's
Pleasing freezing breeze, and pleased, I was, immeasurably.
More fool me! Old Lady Darkness – with her fondest acolytes: death and birth
And drear black night. I possess all the gross infirmities of mind
and soul and heart to leave me gasping as the false lucidity starts
On deep-black nights, when sentient beings' grief
Holds their tongues and clings to this merest tincture of belief.