They tell me I am
‘award-winning’
(at least I think they do)
Yet I only succeed
when masked in white sheet.
stain-removed or repurchased
I write opaque
(if)
in need of a sequel, a prequel
another review; one that’s equal
knighted, Jane Doe
As
my hands craft, white fabri-
cated paged
costume, a façade
whilst I watch the praise come in,
to someone they are not.
Behind curtains, I anticipate applause,
I’m nameless, anonymous, phony
Caspar the Ghost
My fingers tap the keyboard; my confidence
My lips unable to phrase;
‘yes, that was me.’
‘The novel was mine.’
Instead
Camouflage isn’t something festive,
But permanent, but profession
Mouth selo-taped; muted talent
…
‘No, I haven’t heard of them’
‘Isn’t that the best-seller?’
I deceive
My voice being secret
… Fame unachieved
