The Mistress of Word Play

I walked down silent corridors
 where the dead held silent vigil
and somehow I sensed their presence
 down the cobwebbed corridor.
The voices of other writers as they
 begged me take up pen and paper,
touched my heart raped my mind
 till I cried, "Please, no more."
"We have words for you to write down,"
 cried the empty walls and floors,
but I walked still ever faster
 with my hands over my ears.
The ghosts would not be silent
and they cried oh so much louder,
till I felt my spirit shaken
 and I could taste my salty tears.
I was safe now in the garden
with the trees and sunlit fountain,
my mind was once more my own.
There are ghosts in the secret places
where we writers oft times travel.
Those spirits which wait impatiently
 to impose upon the victim's will.
Even 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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