A Ghost Called Love

Where is the heart
if not within, to wherefore
leads our past wherein
a clock which chimes tells not
the hour lest we but listen;
our fruit grow sour.

We can't know, can't see but yet
it holds true what we beget
from each ghost we need so much
and heretofore we speak as such.

What mystery and fluid form
should give such life
and ourselves warm
if not for less and all for more
unto which we give no harm.

I loved her as I love you;
ne'er a fact did ring so true --
If you be gone than so should I;
if earth be still then none could cry.
Finished we, if not by force;
surrendered to in full recourse:
Love is a ghost, a nebulous thing
and we, as doves can grow its wings.

Author's Note
Inspired by 'This Lunar Beauty' by W.H. Auden and written for the 'In Memory Of WB Yeats' comp.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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