My muse is shy
reluctant to give of her secrets
she cowers in dark places
smothered in the ink of night and mysteries
Her fingers crushed
her skin cut and sliced
her eyes plucked out
her tongue has been tied
so tight
it turned blue
and black
as obsidian
She wanders now
in circles
watching
waiting
Hovering on the caught breath
open mouthed
slight tilt of head
dissecting the angle of time
Her words stolen
by a thief
open blasted
a coal mine for dust
seared and scarred
she drifts in darkness
Now
waiting
watching
For a glimmer
Then with swift and deft touch
weaves her trailing hair
slips a golden thread
between words
as if they did not belong to her
Always
Claire Bridge © 2019