In the quiet still, of the night...
when the city rests it's eyes,
The only one awake, is Me
Weaving verses,
beneath the moonlit skies.

Amidst gentle candles, and their glow.
I dream of love and hope forevermore,
the moon's glow baths
the whole place, through it's beam
A pleasant solitude, a poet's silent dream.

A gentle hush, of the winds,
sway the curtains in a dance.
As the quiet howls of the winds, stop.
A figure I gaze upon,
standing near the window's pane now...

It calls my name, in a cherishing tone.
at the moment, in the room anymore,
I wasn't alone.
I stand at once, walking towards where
it stood, it felt as if it was familiar...
the things I loved, it too understood.

Robes of ash grey, but paints of colours it
had, what he wore.
Marks of beauty...Like a painter does
after finishing a work.

Although covered in skeleton
and thin bones,
To me it felt, beneath his cloaks
there was... a beating Heart.
It felt that he was none other than,
the admirer, The Ghost Of Art.

It spoke to me, acknowledging me...
all that I had created, all that I had brought.
to the verses I had weaved.
and the mere souls I could wrought.
it spoke to me of Resilience...
of the bittersweet poetic curse.

It told me, that I wasn't alone in
the path,that I was treading... of indifference
and solitude.
"There had been more" He said.

I acknowledged the past lovers.
the past lovers of Life.
For a passion that would be passed onto to
souls, till the very end. to lovers it'll always
descend.

It told me, that they...are waiting for my
company there, where the past lovers sit.
I questioned if I was good enough...for what
I could write and love,

The Ghost cherished and said that
I was enough and more to fit...
So, I'll stay, as long as I can.
and admire all that goes, unnoticed by
simple man.

"The past lovers, admirers of simple beauty,
the ones before you, would be patiently
waiting for you." The Ghost of Art said.
and it disappeared, to the undead.
for they can never die, true love for things
never does.

I lean upon the chair back,
finishing the final verses of an unspeakable
act. for even if they'll never change, the
people of the city, fortunately for them.
I'd never too.


© #Sherlocked