Ghosts

the day descends in greys and silver
rain still paints the darkened eve’
and as my writer’s candle flickers
in spirits, spectres, I believe,
aura’d shines the clouded moon
in half light shadows from my flame
I take the pen and scribe the night
that these ghosts on the page remain

Spectres

do not fear spectres
for they were once just as we
with stories to tell