Ghost Writers

Diaries written with pen from mother's heart,
men chasing dreams silhouetted by spouse's face,
pages turned in time's chronicles,
ink scrawled by creator often victims
of fame's memory loss
who dwell in the habitats of maternal watch.

Quills coming from their wombs,
bequeathed by sacrifice, held in child's well,
the skirts of her influence
covering every field and lair,
femininity flourishing in secrets of their care,
never exposed to limelight's glow.

A world unfurled in manifold
quilts of expression,
its fabric sewn so oft by fingers
weaving out of love
all the stitches of inspiration,
who do it not for wealth nor attention,
but because the artistry of her instincts
bears her craft without blessing of equality,
having left on life's stage
a play for which others take a bow,
done without being credited as the author.