Once Again

Once more, I am thinking about writing - coils are uncoiling, snakes study the intricate anatomy of legs and next steps. My audience of one must be propped up as if yet still alive, geriatric words must be given their shots. I can tell it's going to be a performance, the poem is even now going off script. It babbles; the entire cast of 'Hamilton' has just walked out in protest. Only Prokofiev and his 3rd piano concerto can save me now, his notes are jungle drums for the hard of hearing, however, the write is not a musical or a concert. It's, it's err... Anyway, it is almost teatime. Already the critiques are sharpening their pencils. I pull apart my white fancy actors' shirt, buttons pop exposing the telltale signs of recent romantic heart surgery. Now an overwrought muse is yelling in my ear. Dammit, I simply cannot write another thing under these circumstances. I box up the coiling snakes, exit left.