My Muse
In a stupor of alcohol and bitterness,
each day dragging out through the dense lens of alcoholic fury.
The days ran from days to months to eons, time travel on a toast.
With no pen available and no thought to ensnare,
the eddies of the cesspool that once was a gorge of wildlife
tore at the torched alcohol induced paralysis.
Days in a haze of detox, 3 years since my last sober breath.
It started with a book “Women Who Run With the Wolves”. *
With each page I could see my soul consumed by danger.
Then striding out boldly to a new sphere.
As the interior landscape became littered with phrases of hope,
of fear, of all things natural.
Swirling like dust devils across a dessert.
rough around the edges.
I picked up a pen one day
And the stories flowed, crashing down upon the page
as if a swollen wound was cut to drain.
And what poured out was hope and love and all the goodness
missing from my three-year hiatus from the page.
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