Electric, Eclectic

I watch them quarrel from a far.
Now who was in a better position to understand The Last Unicorn than The Last Unicorn? But all that incorrigible fool can see is the poet's sanguine face, all she can hear is her vitriolic talk. Of course she takes it personally. She, the saturnine, under a veil of piss.
They bid one another farewell. And The Last Unicorn is all by herself again.

I take out my pen and pad:
Dear Last Unicorn,
A poem must be as honest as an object crafted by a worker's hands. Please be careful there are all sorts of ghosts prowling these confused streets.
Yours,
The Last Unicorn

When The Last Unicorn found the smeared note she scribbled a reply:

Forget modern nature and scream for your lover. She paused and added this,
There is an inner universe with infinite possibilities. Too much to worry about old ghosts.