I have begun to worship
empty notebooks,
but have cursed the pens.
I can’t stand all their bleeding.
They are always
and endlessly–
and if it weren’t
for their nature,
their inherent Shakespearean role
they play,
I’d throw them out
altogether.
But, no.
Instead, they have been burnt with herbs,
buried in the snow,
and locked away
like a long-haired princess.
Her inky locks
folding,
layering
over her shoulders:
untouched.
Lackluster, her pupils deaden
over time.
Her bones worry.
The key is somewhere, I know.
Otherwise,
are we but to wait, patiently,
on the galloping muse
and his white horse,
like a small victim?
