There are many words I never wrote. I never thought of my pen as a ghost. Now with every thought, I weep. A poet without a season. Today is tomorrow's song and yesterday has been sung. A fortnight ago in dreams of eternal quest to erase the loneliness of the past. Communicating with death's shadow. I love you so. Until the edge of twilight lay me down to sleep. Among the guardians of the moon's glow and the pewter lamp at my window with dancing starlights. In my simple life of a crying man of lost threads feeling the ache. Losing the garter and slipper of my life's scenario.