Under the veiled lashes
of heaven am I kept warm
at night under the mantle
of sleep. Hidden in the mur-
mur of that falling shadow
lies my love protected
To stop loving her would
be to shut my heart to all
the living women of earth
To make of them a false
memory never to manifest
Thus my real memory of her
becomes a living mirror
through which she may
continue to haunt me all
the remaining days of my life
Not all ghosts are borne
of death, but all deaths
bear ghosts
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