Ghost writer

Down the street of art
He walks disguised 
like a ground stream
secretly watering
roses in the desert. 

In the absence of the moon
he builds his hut
for you to rest
when sunbaked
at noon.

It sounds like a dream,
a crown owner
never worn a crown,
Writer of published poetry
with not a single poem to his name.

You walk past and not greet,
not even give a grin
yet his work
fuels your passion
and make you so great.

Pity, he can't ignore
the boiling voices
from his veins
uttering art 
that heals sore.

Walking in shade of the great,
crowned in supernatural
pure trait of great art,
ghost writer 
the world for you await.