Ghost writer

 

I want to be

a ghost writer,

clacking away at

my keyboard. 

In spirited repartee 

I'd whisk you away.

No body

to bother me,

just misty vapour,

I'd write wraithy words,

create worlds of paper

to enthral,

that you can't

wait to explore,

just take that

glowing, ethereal exit door.

 

I'll be a ghost writer.

This condemned dead air

filled with my phantom words,

fleeting in the shadows,

creeping under your bed.

Words said in whispers,

or left to wither, dead.

 

I'll be found

floating through the rooms,

writing boo, a lot

As I shake my chains of doom.

Your ghost writer

wooing deadlines that loom,

then crumble

beside you.

Ashes to ashes,

dust to dust

words combust

and reform

this world's crust.

 

I wish I was a spectral scribe,

I'd describe things with such detail,

I'd pride myself on the spectacles I hide,

deep inside

the unearthly text

you skim scared eyes over.

Oozing aspirational context 

over the apparitional haunted pages,

I wouldn't let my ectoplasm stop dripping

until my pen was empty. I'd write plenty

to earn my deathly wages.

A veritable banquet of words,

all written by me,

your spooky word spinner.

I however can't hold a pen, 

it always seems to fall

between my ghostly fingers.

 

 

 

 

Thanks for reading

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Peace, Love & Poetry 

 

Kyle