You brood, walk through the graveyard night after
futile night — calling on ghosts to love you
but you forget yourself. You’re no lover,
no tramp, no paramour. You misconstrue
signs. You make a cheapjack witch. Your love craft
is not love at all; it’s pure want. It’s need
gone all rough and unfulfilled. You have laughed
at your loveless life. If ghosts feed on greed
then you could screw a crew with the longing
inside you. But now you don’t laugh. The dead
have no use for you, just like the living —
Graveyard empty. You hunger. Love unfed.
Deprived. Depraved. Wolfish. Delirious
rattle-boned. Ravenous without purpose.