in cellar of imagination,

shackled by my fear of losing my edge,

these sloe-eyed beauties of ephemeral magic

are chained.

♦
crack it once, twice, three times—

this whip of perseverance,

that I might use their curses for my pen,

their frustration for my ink.

♦

their torment is my inspiration,

ending months of inconsolable language barrenness.

dry years drive my domination,

for where do the words go when your muse escapes?

♦

fancy, fluttering scarves gently dance

as the bonds of creativity

are tested…

and confirmed.

♦

no escape this time.

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♦

♦

©2007 Sharon Gerlach

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