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Fiona Mackintosh
Aug 6, 2011
WRITING EXORCISE
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The slumbering pen awakens, startled.
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Shaking off his nightmare
of a battered feather quill
dipping itself endlessly
into a dried-out, empty ink-well,
he looks around and notices the woman
staring starkly into slowly dying embers.
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They had once filled the grate
with fire and with power.
He remembers.
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She shifts in her chair,
as a dog would casually twitch
in its dream of hunting down prey.
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The clock keeps a silent, judgmental watch
knowing the corrupting influence of time
as it passes from minute, to hour, to night
in this unkempt chamber of creative horror.
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Fiona Mackintosh (© August 6, 2011; 2018)
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