Ghost Writer

anguish lays on the mantel of creativeness

like an apprehensive hangman hesitating

to judge the one who is being killed...

treachery lays at the foot of the mountain

that guards the inner passage of the soul

standing in the ready to be hanged...

rain lays on the ground in puddles in front

of the thoughts that hide under the fall

leaves in the hopes of not deciding who

dies and who lives in the senseless

mindlessness of a dream that has no

reasons to surface this night or beyond;

we care for our dead in this town and

like all towns of our intellect, we cremate

what we cannot bury under the soggy land

that has failed perk tests for years even

though no records were being kept then;

we hunger for enlightenment and

despise the reckless of religious fervor 

that creeps around in graveyards

looking for bodies that survived the rope

and recording their glimpses into the

life ever after that did not arrive for them;

we slip and slide in the rain as we march

our ideas to the factory of abandonment

and reconciliation, reworking the words

that were not as created as believed

while others sit in lounge chairs, holding

their veins open for infusions of editing

that is never performed in the rain, but

has always been desired by those who

can only swim a few strokes at a time;

we are the widow makers of the world

is imprinted upon their foreheads as if

it were some badge of honor or at the

very least would catch the attention

of the ghost writer brought in at the

last moment to correct the ending...

28 September 2020