Ghost had a problem with honesty.
Permitting a self-admittance
in regards to its Rose
who was not its Rose
any more than it was Hope’s
Rose, as a wizened sage’s
whittle rained shavings to a ground
browner than last week,
the wizened sage sighing
between strokes as this dense
ghost was a real piece of work,
thinking Rose was its Rose
alone, blind to seeing one
corrupt hope was one hope and hopes
can go awry – hey try a wish
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