His ghost

(c) Brina

His ghost lingers on

in every thought she ever thought

like a love that wasn’t to be

like the soul mates who never meet

like the thirsty earth wailing for heaven’s moist mouth

like a familiar stranger that eyes behold just once

like a fragrance that invokes the aching past

like a rainbow bubble that would a moment last

like a dream that has faded to forgetfulness

like a blushing rose that withers and dies

before it could exchange hands.

His ghost lingers on and on and on…

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Ode to my muse

sketch of a man

If words be written to seal the beauty

and art to capture all that words can’t

then every drop that into papyrus bleed

and every brush that into the canvas weep

will do so for my muse alone.

Yet truth it is that all smithy would fail

to transcend his being into inky hues

for never did beauty reside in words

and never was art fairer than my muse. Continue reading