My muse sweeps me across a dance floor in the subconscious hall of my mind.
He asks, “Did you forget to Dance?” The corners have darkened, storm clouds gathering outside. The wind whipping through the open windows, opaque curtains billowing like ancient, tottering gods.
Life is a battle of will. A battle for hope against the slow dying of our cells and the brittling of our bones. But fear has crept it’s long tendrils across my dance floor, and for free of tripping, I’ve lost my steps. The music is distant, aloof in its static, and I can’t keep the rhythm.
A quiet refrain lilts in the wind, I bend my ear to it. Frost speaks across the expanse:
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
“Yes”, I say, “miles to go before I sleep.”
Miles and miles to go, stories and stories still need to be written. Pages waiting to be filled like eager youths yearning for first love’s palpitation.
My muse asks, “Did you forget to Dance?”
I have, but the music is crackling again in the gramophone, and the steps have returned to these leaden feet.
The rhythm returns, for I have miles to go before I sleep, and stories still yet to be told with pages yearning to be filled, and characters begging to breathe.