By September Thorlin

There’s a ghost in my poem.

I only meant to write about a rose —

But it took my rose
pricked my finger
leapt back to the page
and danced its ghostly dance.

Holding my rose
without a care
it drips
my blood
my words
disfiguring them beyond recognition.

The ghost, glancing over its shoulder
meets my shocked expression with an eye rolling response,
My dear, that poem never belonged to you,
with a wink and nod,
but now it does…

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