Our Poienari Castle

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We want the world to be a realm where wraiths

Are music, poetry, the lines of notes

Of symphonies and epics.  We want faiths

Composed of sonnets, villanelles, love notes

That haunt us longer than the ghost of Christ,

The Shakespeares with their loves in rhyming strains,

Love men and women, young and dark, who heist

Our hearts and leave us blood and semen stained.

Our haunted house with poltergeists that fling

Our souvenirs about in memories like

That song we never framed will make us sing

As if a moth embraced a ghostly spike.

  Our song we never wrote, our ode we failed

    To frame will be there groaning, still, impaled.

~ Phillip Whidden