A Writer's Plea Part I

A ghost who comes to show a man that death can be gentle.

One dreary night

She came to me

Deep in slumber

Not in dream.

With lips of crimson

Curl'd hair of brown

Upon her face

She wore a frown.

She spoke in riddles

Not in rhyme

With words like petals

That fall with time.

With a mellifluous tone

She sang with thee

I cannot transgress

A writer's plea.

Though her visits were short

She came nonetheless

And spoke of such horrors

That my heart can't digest.

Her lies are as beautiful

As sparkling champagne

Now her languid eyes look

Towards me with disdain.