Before the ghost my face was a bright morning;
Now one who looks at me must pass through mourning,
And so no one now wishes me good morning,
But pray in silence for an end to mourning.
She shrieked so many times one moody morning,
"You beckon me with your subconscious mourning."
The day she turned up—screaming—in the morning,
Since then my days are different shades of mourning.
No eyes who see me see another morning,
For who but me can swallow up such mourning.
A ghost is my alarm clock every morning;
I wake to witness shifting, spectral mourning.
She screams, no more, but waits at night for morning,
Then summons—at once—each drop of mourning.
Last edited by Yves S L; 05-03-2022 at 04:42 PM.
Reason: Wow! The edit did not take!