In Old Places
P Patti Masterman
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In old places there's not a breath left
Of the spirits who once called it home
Stories of ghosts never make sense
To old stones; as if they cleft
And had no means to roam
And be gone from whence
They spent their last breath;
Or should they live in a tomb,
Walled in by a fence
Of loved ones, bereft,
The only neighbor, a bone
And a lost half-pence.
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