Fickle Muse
Published in
1 min readNov 3, 2018
Poems swirling and shifting at the edge of dreams, of nightmares. A blurred image, a broken sentence, a crumbling word, a drowning metaphor. They are fragile birds perched on the highest branches spooked at the smallest sound. Do they sit there waiting patiently even when I am not writing? I woo them gently with letters,words, and lines with wide margins that take dangerous turns. I’m afraid they will evaporate with language, sink in sound or flutter and fly away from with the weight of my words scrawled on their wings, landin on some page other than mine.
