The Centaur’s Ghost
The Centaur’s ghost rides through the night,
his shadow thin and pale.
He sighs for love that once was bright,
now lost beyond the veil.
At midnight’s toll, the cold winds call,
the aching—hurting—deep.
Like hollow bells ringing through the fall,
grieving is what wraiths reap.
A legend’s trace is all I keep,
a fragment, faint yet true.
Somber airs haunt my restless sleep,
Sere vanishes in dew.
The winter moans, as loss does bawl,
the seasons fade and flee.
No tempest shouts his voice at all—
yet his sigh still follows me.
In Response to the Centaur’s Ghost
The Centaur’s Ghost—
a pathetic ballad—
sighs of loss, who? What?—
with rhymes grown pallid.
In pathetic words,
like “a legend’s trace”,
“fragment”, fragmented,
a poet’s disgrace.
Yet at midnight,
it’s grief and wraiths?
Well, Hell!
and my patience rings dull,
a “hollow bell”.
No! Say not of winter’s winds—
“moaning”, “bawl”!
Yet I say, love endures
bad lines and all.
WoPoLi 
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