Poem for Kasi

[lunesque]

Writers and Whores

So once again I sit here
looking at the blank page
trying to call my muse back from the dark closets
it likes to inhabit.

To write is to follow the whims of a fickle mistress
consumed with the foundations of her mercurial surfaces
flittering to and fro as her moods demand.
And yet, though I fight against her reach with all of my will
She always draws me back with a laugh
And a hint of a well-turned ankle.

Yet she is my mistress and I can no more neglect her call
then I could remove my own heart,
and so bear her perverse charms
in the confines of my own private hell.

(If one cannot tell the difference
between a writer and a whore,
I cannot fault them.

I don’t know the difference myself.)