It was a fearful ghost,
Whom I may call as past.
Under the sprig of dark
And with mighty dog's bark,
Now it visited my book,
And gave me ideas to cook.
It was filled with emotions,
And surprised to see new notions.
But motionless was I,
who brooded with gloomy eye
at the passage of time,
So I muted it into rhyme
And now my ghost is living.
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