Thursday, June 28, 2012

A Shifty Wicket

The wick on her candle
    dances on vowels,
Tumbles on syllables
    'til finally she growls.
She stares for a couplet,
    sublime and serene,
Begs of the wax
    to show her a scene.
Where lithe gods of words
    come out to play,
And sprinkle out stardust
    of black lead in sprays,
Upon her white journal,
    the lines empty now.
She's humbled by flame
    and brittle from drought.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Brave soul to make a comment. Wink.