Cornered By An Evil Muse
Writing in a room with an insolent ceiling,
Haughty in its skill at keeping thoughts out of reach,
Emotions darted above me, bat-like in their evasion,
A rapture of denial, pushing me away.
Ever I spun toward memory - always a quarter-turn ahead;
The seasons hid their faces, the Heavens turned their back,
Inspiration's cache stood just offshore, vanishing in fog;
What room was this - I was lost, off-center.
Every poem unwrote itself, the merest beginning hope
having fallen to dust; my mind and body were false constructions.
At the last, light and darkness gave up definition,
The walls and floor coming to the point without me.
March 25, 2017
Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2017
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