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.