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