Circles

Circles

 

I need to write a poem, said the writer to her muse.

I don't know what to tell you, said the muse to her writer.

That's no help, groused the writer to the space around her.

A twig scratched the window outside.

The writer sighed and felt a chilly breeze swirl around her ankles.

What are you trying to tell me?

You never listen anyway, grumbled the muse in response.

Why am I arguing with you?

I don't know, I'm a muse, it's a little nutty, if you ask me.

You're telling me.

You need therapy.

Go away.

You called me here.

Now I'm telling you to go away.

What about the poem?

I'm not going to write one now.

Too late, laughed the muse.

You are annoying.

A breeze blew the curtain around the writers face.

The writer swore she heard a giggle in the distance.

 

~ Sheleena Courtney, 2014 ©