The pen in my hand gripped firmly
hovers . . . .
No muse appears. No ink is spent.
The pages reflect back the bright white
Beauty is hidden. Precision is twisted
around error in an unproductive
Somewhere a prediction fails.
A righteous oration falters.
Passion falls into the depth
of a whisper . . . .
I do not anticipate death,
for it always lies near.
No: I wait for the terror of living
to resolve itself in words.
Copyright 2011 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.