The Ghost Poet!

Some say he haunts at dead of night, Some say he will not leave, Some say they heard the ghost recite, As if new spells to weave... He tells the tale of love once lost, His maiden long ago, To say that he was double-crossed By friends he used to know... His poems are in ancient speech, Like Shakespeare's at The Globe, As if the Fates he must beseech, As if his final hope... And so he wanders room-to-room In search of Gabrielle, His mournful heart so full of gloom, For she may be in Hell... There are no clanking chains and such Embellishing this tale, Enough to say he loved her much, Alas, to no avail... When word got out, the people went, Departing home, sweet home, To leave him there without a friend, For evermore to roam... To think, he spouts his poetry, Each lonely, lonely night, No living soul to hear or see, Thus no-one there in fright... Just beetles climbing up the walls, Just moths that flitter by, While to his love each poem calls, Recited with a sigh...