Ghostwriter

Who will talk deep into the night, when voices are sound asleep? 

In any event, should a word be found, would it be spoken from dream? 

Its silence found late into hours, does its presence rouse to think? 

Of connections made, that ever stray, missed in the conscience of a blink. 

While writing these words, a spirit professed, of this world's cold wicked game, 

Its plucking of tongues on mute eardrum, echoing love's words estranged. 

These lowly old thoughts, penned with pen, summoned its ghosts of ink. 

Its words displaced from its haunted page, released a spectre in me.