The Ghost

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  • Nature

    The Ghost

    I travel to a place in the woods.
    I had no idea what might lie beyond these woods.
    As I approach a house I heard some voices whispering.
    "Yes, she's the one."
    "she looks quite tasty."
    I tried my hardest not to listen to those pester calls.
    But as I stayed there, it was getting more and more frighten
    The voices kept getting louder and louder.
    Then the voices were followed with a loud
    bang, crash, and whoosh.
    The air was suddenly cold like ice.
    I ran out of that old run down house.
    Not even looking back, but I still could hear them from a distant.
    Now I know why they call the house, "the house of death."

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    firerabbit13’s Poems (8)

    Title Comments
    Title Comments
    Alone 2
    Stay 1
    Put a Smile on 1
    Acceptness 1
    Empty-Spaces 0
    No One's There 0
    The Ghost 0
    I Love You 1