two minutes past the witch’s hour
he wonders will she come.
he does not summon.
he invites.
the muse creeps in behind him
from neuron raging skylines,
against the bar she spies him
and in the dream he is alive.
ghostly in her elegance
a puppet in her presence,
she lives where dreams meet the dawn.
a quaking in his chest
his heart a frantic menace,
she that brings him the words yet he cannot speak
should not speak, would not speak
but writes.
his fire bright on through the night
she leaves his pen quaking,
with her calm she saves him.
by Doug Metz
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| Campfire © Jennifer Phillips |
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