Well-fed and warm. Sipping on coffee.
Decades have passed since I felt any pain,
Or seen the sunken cheeks of penury in my mirror.
Stirred by no emotion, no woe weighs my mind.
Well-loved and cared for. Contented.
I sit in happy chair, scratching pen on paper,
Coaxing tales of passion and courage, or even a poorer harsh reality
to flow in words of Indigo, like a gushing stream from a broken dam.
The words, pearls! The language, exquisite!
The pace is a-trot, the description, a picture.
Prose and dialog intertwined, married to be one.
But story, sorry story. Nothing wrong, nothing right. A mirror.
Step-by-logical-step. I try again. And again.
Colorful, beautifully parceled sawdust, each time.
No muse nor magic helps. I look to the mirror and she says,
“A gelded mind fills but not even a gilded pen.”
