In the dreary dark
By the flickering lamplight
A writer awaits his inner flame
Like moths drawn to light
A voided mind
Spells no words
Paints no verse
Delves in somnolence
From the depths of the dark
Emerges a shadow of hope
A ghost of words
Cloaking his worth
The wrinkly writer
Writes a borrowed dream
Copied calligraphy
Of words stringed by another
Fame knocks at the door
Looking for the author who signed the book
Not for the one who dreamt of it
Rented creativity looks charming
Fickle fame cannot blemish
Words woven into the fabric of the World
All praise and applause will never be his own
But the words were his alone