an old poem but done with long since; a reply to a drunken and way too late for common sense conversation.

Upon the flame, beyond the crackling fire,
we sit in tales embellished by each breath;
here, what pale shadow lingers after death
or calls the remnant embers of desire?

For Troy is lost and Helen's a cliche,
the poets pen but scratches in the dust -
or brings old ghosts to life, with echoed lust,
and rolls each dimming shadow into day.

great poem