Deep within a southeastern mire
Drifts a makeshift raft truding by
Its skeletal host doesn’t tire
Of finding new stories to try

A trove of tales are in the bog
At least that’s what locals proclaim
So across the swamp in the fog
Floats the ghost in search of his game

Through cyprus and moss, south winds blow
Echoing dark tales of the lost
Three are told at a time to show
How all choices come with a cost

Then the raft is torn asunder
As twine fails and logs fall away
Folklore lost; down sinks the plunder
Misjudged how much stories might weigh

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