The Centaur’s Ghost
The Centaur’s ghost rides through the night,
his shadow thin and pale.
He sings of love that once was bright,
now lost beyond the vale.
At midnight’s toll, the cold winds call,
the echoes soft yet deep.
A hollow bell rings through the fall,
where grief and silence creep.
A legend’s trace is all I keep,
a fragment, faint yet true.
His whispers haunt my restless sleep,
then vanish with the dew.
The winter moans, yet love stands tall,
though seasons fade and flee.
No tempest tears its voice at all—
and its words still follow me.
In Response to the Centaur’s Ghost
The Centaur’s Ghost—a pathetic ballad,
sings of loss with rhymes grown pallid.
In my precious words, a legend’s trace,
a fragment left of a phantom grace.
Yet at midnight, grief and silence swell,
and my memory rings a hollow bell.
No! Though winter’s winds may call,
Yet I say, love endures beyond its fall.
Ode on a distant prospect, faded,
Ode to Autumn, richly shaded.
Ode to Captain, chart the sea—
yet lexicon alone pilots me.
WoPoLi 
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