Paul Dundon’s Weblog


A little cheese and a little whine


Haunted by the ghost

Of someone I knew long ago

I lie alone and listen

To the rain against the window

Caressing empty sheets I scan

The faces of today in memory

Knowing that he is not there,

Will never be; it is too late,

The possibility of him

Long faded into fantasy

And then the shade of wishfulness

Itself became a cypher, so that

Now, even as I touch

The memory of desire

It also passes, ’til the faint

Faint sense of old regrets

Is all that I have left of him


Filed under: Writing

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My Bookshelf

The Golden Bough
The Value of Nothing
The Fire
A Wolf at the Table
Devil Bones

My links

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