The words seemed to be playing
above the page
as if suspended in time,
Reveling in a quiet joy
yet turning into a baroque reverie,
as they refused to light onto the page.
They seemed to be whispering
in her ear, dipping and darting,
then drifting together in a dance
right off the page.
It was late and she was weary,
She needed to get this story
out of the mess that was
the tangled rosebush of her mind.
Light began to fill the sky
where the moon and stars
used to be.
Even as she leaned over the page
The dawn now seemed
to be making the page’s blankness
all the more stark.
Sometimes having followed the words,
in the end, it’s not the story that you find.
It has been sweeping away
in a dance of fractured segments
that could not form.
Sleep now into this negative of nights
now turned to daylight.
Another time this story will
find its way to the page.
© DiAnne Ebejer