:: Ennui ::

I searched, but there is no prose in me today. I'm quiet with dysphoria. I wish I could sit with my feet in a pool, reading La Belle Dame Sans Merci while eating green apples. I would mix cacao-de-creme with apricot brandy and call it my poison du jour. I would be a sun-worshipper and let its rays run their golden fingers through my hair.

I would.

***

Conversations

I told my muse,
Let me write a modern poem today.
Let me tell the world,
Of my dying plant,
Of my ailing father,
Of the smog that shades the sun.

I told my muse,
To join me in my cubicle,
To mingle her wisdom with my small routines.
Let me tell the world,
Of my need to fly,
Of my fear to fall,
Of the curious stranger that stares back in the mirror.

I told my muse,
That I am an empty shell without her light,
That I am lost in hairline cracks of choice.
Let me tell the world,
I want to write and bleed for words,
I want to paint and play for colours,
I want to sing and let my chorus linger.

So maybe this isn't modern poetry―
My muse doesn't want to talk.
Her feet are dangling free,
And her hands are guiding mine.
Maybe we will never win a prize,
My muse and I―
But she makes me smile.
And she makes me write.
And she makes me right.