“The essential truth is that sometimes you’re worried that they’ll find out it’s a fluke, that you don’t really have it. You’ve lost the muse or – the worst dread – you never had it at all. I went through all that madness early on”. – Robin Williams
The air is empty this October, so still, not even the smell of pumpkin spice changes anything. No witches, no imagination, and sadly no muse. For it would appear she has ghosted me, left me with no familiar in which to confide, no words in which to write. No spirit in which to see from inside. Maybe it is for a season, maybe it last in a forever night. For now, it immortal, and what can I do but hide.
So, are you my faire, are you my fine? My silver dust, my mystery shine. My three-beat heart, a moving boat, words drawn from witchcraft, when I awoke. Are you Esther, are you ghost, famished woman, a song once wrote? Bones and violence, stung by lore, a talisman hidden in your bust I adore. Are you a windstorm, a broken reed, fragmented in reflection by heavy needs? Are you the spirit, a deep divide, have your legs opened from the other side? And will you call the night sky, home, star by star, like a honeycomb. A periodic table of ore, moving plasma what life’s, therefore. And will you be born anew. And will you move when, I breathe into you. The earth calls me, so I call you, but ghosting me is all you do.
Are you bonny, or thin as glass, hard to see when the writer’s block last? Gone tomorrow, not here today, words just spoken but their meaning won’t stay. Have you seen me searching maps, looking for direction, while a compass naps? Ghosting me to and fro, unanswered questions as my dreams cease to flow. For a lack of rationale, or reason or rhyme. Our conversation ceases in the ether over time. Not fair play I scream at you, still in the twilight there is nothing but a silent hue. In that itself it goes to black, another long night, the sight I lack. A never answer, a silent line, the whole world spinning, but not aligned. I look to heaves, they look to me, the whole astrology so hard to see. The earth calls me, so I call you, but ghosting me is all you do.
Are footsteps following beyond my back, I cannot tell for it’s a trail I lack. So, are you barren, can you not produce, the cut of my tongue is bitter without your use. Could you be an adulteress, gone to sea, riding other hips in verbosity? Could be you dead, cold on a stone, somewhere in time, where the druids do roam. Are you transformed, and gone to G_D, watching me search, this earthen pod? Wherever you have hidden, please come home, I feel so empty and all alone. The earth calls me, so I call you, but ghosting me is all you do. – 10.5.2022 – דָּנִיֵּאל