Ode aux Écrivains

Standing in the decorum of inspiration's shadow,
We wait for it to take pause. In mein and veneer it is a most
elegant creature, but as elusive as trying to grasp oxygen
inside the air's taunting jaws. In our regular post,

we stand at the ready, pens poised, fingers hover,
Tempting it with delectible blank pages, but it doesn't dare approach.
Safe inside its cage, on top of the pedastal, it decides
to return simply to enrage us at the inconvenience of its encroach.

It likes to lurk
At midnight's toll, when we stumble for the pen,
Only to be kidnapped into it's own world,
brain groans, eyelids loll, body droops, and it has left again.
It's a cheeky, scheming thing, but you want to be

its friend, on its good side. For when the floodgates open,
the water brings us joy, only to realize that procrastination
has made a deal with this snide abstraction.
When it treats your kin well you eye it with envy,

only to look back on every blot. To your horror
you've been despising the very thing which has
carried you to maturity from the cot.