. . . same poem, same love song, same old story,
says my long-familiar ghost. every work
of art is the echo of frustrated love . . .
too many nights in shadows cast by the moon
in her jealous sky among her maudlin stars
drunk with isolation and space and spitting
nightmare into the hearts of crows . . . my ghost
stops me here to explain these are all fragments
of my fractured self, echoes of jilted love
I have yet to make my peace with . . . be silent,
old ghost, and cease projecting your sorrows
on my heart’s sullen screen! silence becomes
sweetest song in the healing heart . . . but now
her silence is deeper grief than jealous moonlight.
David M Pitchford
8 Nov 2011
