In a creaky old house on Inspiration Street,
Lived a ghost with a passion that couldn’t be beat.
A spectral writer with ink in his soul,
Who typed through the night as his stories would roll.
His transparent fingers would dance on the keys,
Of a ghostly typewriter that floated with ease.
Click-clacking and tapping through dim morning light,
While all other spirits had long taken flight.
“I must write!” he would cry, as he drifted through walls,
“Every story inside me just has to be scrawled!”
He’d write in the attic, the kitchen, the den,
Sometimes upside down with his floating pen.
The living folks noticed their papers would move,
And mysterious manuscripts seemed to improve.
Their half-finished novels would somehow complete,
With plot twists and endings surprisingly sweet.
“Oh my!” said a writer who lived in the home,
“Someone’s editing chapters while I’m on the phone!”
The ghost gave a chuckle, continuing still,
To polish their prose with professional skill.
But one day our ghost had a terrible fright,
When his typewriter jammed in the middle of night.
“Oh no!” he exclaimed with a horrified moan,
“Whatever shall happen to stories unknown?”
He tried using laptops, but his spectral touch,
Made the electronics fritz far too much.
He attempted a quill, but the ink wouldn’t flow,
Through his ethereal hand – now what could he know?
Then the writer who lived there came up with a plan,
“Dear ghost,” she called out, “I think that I can
Be your hands in the world, while you whisper your tales,
We’ll collaborate daily – our work shall prevail!”
So now in that house on Inspiration Street,
Two writers work together, their partnership sweet.
The ghost dictates stories with theatrical flair,
While his living friend types in her comfortable chair.
Their books fill the shelves, and their tales touch the heart,
Of readers who know not they’re reading ghost art.
For the best kinds of stories, as some people say,
Come from spirits who just couldn’t write them away!
Source: Read MoreÂ
