She slipped away on a goose feather hope
and a mouse promise of freedom, which
I could have told her amounted to nothing,
but she had eyes only for the moon and its
insane whisperings, the nonsense words
that told her what she was doing was more
than right, it was downright prophetic and
would result in a glorious spring the likes
of which this wicked world have never known.
So I let her go, and I watched as she wandered
down the rutted road, littered with letters
from travelers who’d written back that all
was not well, that the end was really the end.

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Robert Crisp currently hides out in Savannah, GA, where he keeps strange hours and stranger company. He writes poems as often as he can. Read more here: http://www.writingforghosts.com