Ghost Writer

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I died “unsuccessful”
In my chosen field
My gift unto the multitudes
Persisted unrevealed
Until post mortimal decay
Had these bones congealed
But strange although it sounds to say
I feel my sentence was repealed

Yes, I escaped th’attentions
Of those lost in their books
Peering fearfully at life
From their secluded nooks
And giving authors such as I
Patently adoring looks
Whom if they passed me on the street
Clung to their pocketbooks

Without the introduction
Which lead them all to flirt
Without that big production
They’d treat me just like so much dirt
Without the glamour authorship
Briefly round me girt
These same would scuttle by me
Careful to their eyes avert

Whom, at a signing, simper
Giggle madly, and agree
To anything I in the mood
To say might happen be
Did I aver that submarines
Are made of filligree?
One of them finds an epigram
Amenable to me

No, as it was, a quiet life
With a few quiet friends
And time and peace with self and God
To make my genuine amends
Unwishing for existence
To opinion public bends
Free agent — writing only to
My own well chosen ends

The poet/editor of this website is physically disabled, and lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level. Contributions may be made at:

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Ana Daksina

About the Author: Ana Daksina

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