A lonely evening, naught in sight
but muted hue of red and blue;
the distant glare of corner’s light
where few will tread the path at night.
You see a figure by the door,
a palish white, a moment’s fright,
the ghost of some provincial lore—
a lonely shore on barren moor.
It’s quickly gone, as if a flare
burned out before we might explore
the reason it was standing there;
we’re left with nothing but its glare.
They tell me that the story’s true:
a soul’s despair once captured where
his love could not her love imbue—
he chose love’s flame to end his rue.
2024-01-01