A poets complaint

Outside, the new
moon is rising.
Resting in the exact
spot, for decades now.
The ghosts, I picked up
along the way.
Lying prostrate
by the river.
Reflecting of jealousy
and unrequited love.
Each one, sinking deeper
into cold salacities.
Offered by lusty gewgaws.
Trying to hide their
silence in living.
And noise in death.

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