I cast my nets in seas of synonym and syllable.
Trawling through schools of metaphors and simile
Hoping to catch my muse unawares.
Haul her, mermaid like, into my boat.
Suddenly, there she is,
Passing me squid ink with which to write.
On pages of flattened seaweed.
Biding me to listen to the whispered tales,
Of the conch shells she wears about her neck.
Sentences saved, or lost and sunk,
Wrecked on treacherous cliches.
Monstrous plots that terrify and consume.
Stirred out of the depths of a Jungian unconscious.
Thousands of passengers, any one of whom,
Would love their stories to be told.
Waves of words that wash upon the shore of my page.
Telling of the tides of fortune and fickle fame.