Midnight Inspiration

A suggestion of shape

Fills a void

In the corner of the room.

Fiend? Friend or foe? Fie!

Language is impoffible

In worlds where the long ess lurks.

Thorns prick and bleed,

Though they gather stealthily

In throaty, thoughtful, hefty thomes -

Er, tomes -

And give us pseudo-archaic terms

To wrangle, like “Ye Olde Tavern.”

Frantic scribbling fills the void,

Skitterings of a scratching quill

Quell the snappish words

And pin them to a page.

Fear not, word-butterflies,

You rise and soar

When read, released,

Softly glowing with illumination,

Knowledge, understanding.

Limning dark corners-

Where resides nothing

But cobwebs.