Ghosts. A Microstory.

Ghosts

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The Midnight Hours. IV.

The midnight hours call to me.
Silent pleas smothered by the terror of nightmares half formed.
Shivering in the wake of dread’s ethereal touch
Haunting, chilled, reverent.
Blending with the staypleasemore of lovers and the lonely,
a non-believer’s prayer.
I am a vampiric spector, drinking deep from desperation’s veins,
inspiration sweet on my tongue as I twist pain
into prose and I wonder
If I too
will burn to ashes

in the dawn.