living with the dead in poetry

spectres following
through each night
all this could’ve
been yours had the
price been right
but your dream bids
they all went over
as if crimson not
four-leaf clover

spectres following
through each night
fading away in the
dawn’s early light
but you hear those
morning-birds talk
all they do is mock

spectres following
through each night
they cannot be killed
don’t waste the fight
no path to full victory
no perfect concealment
just a table to sit at
in hopes of some fair
sort of agreement