She tries to put that favorite poem of her's to sleep
it wasn't easy as it spoke of pain, made her weep,
kept on talking about losses, promises not kept,
fighting losing wars, strifes and getting lost.
She waited for the night, fully covered in black tresses
the ample woman, compassionate, who gently would caress
in night's presence and deft manoeuvres all weeping stops.
She sighs, no more poems resurrecting the reign of pain, she hopes
forgets what makes her nightly haunt this place, that she is a ghost
Some say Ghosts sing..could be a poem that once was favourite