Language is not liquid
Words are not wind
Breath from faeries
Thistledown droplets
It's more like mist.

The Poet sits alone.

Darkness and
Sleep
have overcome others
Still the Poet sits and
Pours her soul out
Onto the screen
A scrap of paper
Words and lines mix
in a sea of artistic chaos.

Frozen feet and headachy
Blurred vision
Muses are cruel masters.

To slave for a Muse
the Poet sleeps little
writes late
writes long
and once adjusted
Muse withdraws
in punishment.

No one sees the Poet's face
Sunlight alters it not
Pale in summer
paler in winter
withdrawn from life
a slave to creative drive.

The Poet knows others are out there
others like her
slaves to other Muses
trapped in their own
songs
Emotions between lines
Aftertaste of masterpieces
Hidden behind page
beyond screen
between words
Poets labour in the dark.

Alone but not alone
for the words are their
Watchers
the Muse is their
Master
the night their
companion.