Ghost Writer

I wracked my brain and bit my tongue
but no words would come to mind,
frustration choked my heart and brain
as I struggled to pen a line.

Disgusted then I capped the ink
and flounced off to my bed,
leaving parchment blank and bare
with nothing to be read.

Rising at dawn to stoke the fire
I was chilled through to the bone,
for there were written pages
with words that were not my own.

The door was barred windows sealed
no one there but me,
but the quill was wet and ink near gone
with verses there to see.

Those words just soared and rhymed so well
I read till sun was high,
then tried again to add my own
but the muse was nowhere nigh.

My spirits sank with the evening sun
tears moistening the page,
bereft of hope and talent
I retired in smoldering rage.

Then again in the thin grey light
awaited lines of musical words,
gently flowing and graceful
flitting by like birds.

Fear gripped my heart like a talon
who was having this cruel jest?
Composing exquisite poems
far beyond my humble best.

These would sell I knew
fair value was in each line,
only to besmirch my name
if proven they were not mine.

Then came a whisper from the muse;
“Buy ink and parchment of lamb,
sharpen your quill and leave them
for the unfolding of the plan.”

I did as she bid by stocking the desk
then retired to sleep so deep,
returning to find the single line;
“Those verses are yours to keep.”

The next ones came in profusion
flowing easily from my hand,
familiar feelings translated
and I began to understand.

Our waking and our sleeping
are sides of just one coin,
the spirit and the body
being prepared to join.

Incomplete until combining
hand and eye with soul,
each complimenting the other
becoming a useful whole.


by Robert Quinn
all rights reserved