I stroll down silent hallways
where the dead hold silent vigil
and somehow I sense their presence
down the cobwebbed corridor.
I hear voices of other writers as they
beg me take up pen and paper,
touching my heart raping my mind
till I cry, "Please, no more."
"We have words for you to write down,"
scream the empty walls and floors,
but I walk frightened ever faster
with my hands over my ears.
The ghosts will not be silent
and they cry oh so much louder,
till I feel my spirit shaken
and I can taste my salty tears.
I am safe now in the garden
with the trees and sunlit fountain,
my mind is once more my own.
There are ghosts in secret places.
Places which writers oft times travel.
Longing for a living audience
they lurk in the darkness of night.
I observe their tortured faces.
Crying out to all who might hear,
their life’s tragedies and triumphs.
Those spirits wait impatiently,
to impose upon the victim's will.
Though I abandoned those paths once taken,
through long abandoned dwellings,
I hear their voices sometimes late at night.
They are calling to me still.
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