His Leaflet lyre
Had always prepared stories whose
Salted words had been made
To suffice for me

Served a mouthful of stones to chew on
Pebbling scraps into draining hands

I never liked those stories

Another whose blind eyes
Had barren them once
Spoken of ghosts across rivers

A child’s searching for ears
From eager deserts siege

He was always afraid of ghosts

I knew a ghost once
It would always disappear
Along with the beating of my heart
Prior to explaining how to chase it

I’d always respond
Holding out my helpless hands

“Well here, its right here
I’ve already found it”