I sang my songs for the rest,
For you I am still;
The tree of my song is bare
On its shining hill.

For you came like a lordly wind,
And the leaves were whirled
Far as forgotten things
Past the rim of the world.

The tree of my song stands bare
Against the blue—
I gave my songs to the rest,
Myself to you.

Our fingers graze
      As I pass his cup
            My eyes meet his
                      
                            He smiles.

                                       Seduction is subtle.

Is a poet still a poet
if his work should go unread?
Or is he just a dreamer
with words inside his head?

Does a poet keep on writing
though no one knows his name?
Or spill his soul 'til his fingers bleed,
searching for his fame?

Does he dream of Poe as he writes his verse
in poetic harmony?
Or Count the Ways like Browning did
in sonnet forty-three?

Does he Take the Road Not Taken
like the late great Robert Frost?
Or take the road the others take
to find out that he's lost?

A poet is a poet
if his work should go unread
His words will stand the test of time,
in something that he said

There are ghosts in the machine
That they aptly labeled "me"
Lines of code that know
What the wind does
When it doesnt blow

Were they placed there to find
Or escape only to hide
And if I give chase
Can I be content
That they'd only erase

There are ghosts in the shell
Hiding in the spaces between each cell
As they permeate my gears
They assail my mind with the thought
"There are no ghosts in here"