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. Returning at dawn to stoke the fire I was chilled through to the bone, for there were written pages with words not of 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 of the muse saying; “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 a 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.