Tale Of The Midnight Ghost Writer

Once upon a midnight dreary

Sat a writer all weak & weary

Her eyes upon a lit up screen

Her fingers thunder across

To her limousine

Like the clicking of Mahnolos on marble

Her gorey stories of Fashion's past

Pile onto the lit screens' vast

If that's not all how 'bout some flowers?

Keep adding them until they're Bowers

Hearts are good, how 'bout some of those?

They only add emphasis to her prose

Keep clicking & clicking on through the night

Stopping at daybreak to yawn in the light

Fold up her wares, retire to sleep

Tonight she'll be back, the blackness

She'll reap.

Blacmist~