The Haunting


I cannot strengthen ebbing thread
Nor clasp the fleeting of my tide
I cannot raise the earthly dead
With battered shrapnel's of my pride
The ghosts that cleave nostalgic grind
With letters sent from yawning past
Will bleed and bruise within the mind
Like sullen shadows gravely cast
The iron fist I would not heave
From chiseled works of bygone war
Are mine alone to taste and grieve
And dance upon a noiseless shore

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