Imagination

The gap proceeds, diverging further on

The avenues which nevermore cohere.

Then, closer, ghosts who never souls had worn

Befriend the biting tongue of coals sincere

And make the meal with deprivation haunt

The avaricious glutton in his guilt.

The God-forsaken derelict would flaunt

To ghosts, unrivaled drifters on the hill,

His boundless cache, yet never flowed the tied

Where sang the driftwood canticles from home

Or stole refrains from apparitions’ brides,

To journey, hum, engross the salty foam.

These blooming trees of specters, fruit so bland,

Air swallowed, more, could empty stomach stand.

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