The skies were silent and grey,
As the clouds kept slowly rolling by.
There was no sign of the radiant Sun,
It was not shining today for anyone.
The sky was dull and getting dark,
There were no birds flying over the park.
The children were returning home,
People were not going to sing and roam.
This was the time when on high,
The ghost writers appeared in the sky.
With pens, laptops and notebooks in hand,
They were scribbling their thoughts in silver sand.
These are the ghost writers, those great souls,
Still writing to make their memories whole.
Writing about lives, great loves lost and won,
Away from the painful glare of the Sun.
These are the ghost writers who live on high,
Writing classics with A.I. even after they die.
The ghost writers in the rolling clouds and dark sky,
Inspire writers living to keep writing until the last sigh.