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You're not a ghost
but you might as well be.
Your silence loud
as New Year revelries.
Walking through doors
that open only out
to haunts
only the broken hearted
know.
Skeletal trees armed
with witches brooms,
frosty, windblown spray
of scudding clouds
changing childs enchanted moon
to gargoyle face.
Slapped cheeked
until every tear wrung out
to salt and ice.
If only your knock
the winter would shake again.
Saddle the unicorn
in a blanket of roses
and jump
the hurdle of green hedges
like headlights the dark.
But ghosts return no favor
And we ghosted up a river
with shine and luster
to drown.
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Copyright 2024.
Sergeant Floyd
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Sergeant Floyd
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