Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋

Writing Season

Must I possess inspiration to
reach, clutch, lift
this quill
to stab the very heart of you,
stain a page pathetic
with dreams...?
The dim light emitting
from two eyes glares
at a cursor pulsing.
Could a quill stain a brain
stabbed at its very heart?

Green it is,
but not earthen.

Blue and red spew, mix
on this clotted terrain.
I wish for the season
of penning vacuous odes
to end. These invisible breezes
barely brush a cheek.

Inspiration was
a cruel mistress.
I desire snow now.


10.27.21
1.7.22 edit, add