Conflagration

The lady stands behind me at the table

She whispers in my ear the words

I'll write when she moves me

More often than not she is not my muse

There is suffering in the words

The paper crumpled up in my pocket

The tender burned heart break

The remedy of never writing again

Would quench the mental conflagration

But she still smolders

Just waiting for my fuel

Waiting for me to pick up the pen


WBA February 4, 2009