O Great Writing Spirit. Where have you gone.

My quill sits poised, waiting...impatiently tapping its fingers...fully expecting many exalted and wonderous ideas to make their grand appearance upon my empty pages ~

Where, oh where, are those august, resplendent and grandiose ideas which should grace the chapters of my literary soliloquy ~ O thou illustrious words, please now allow my interior monologue to grace the discourses of my exterior oration.

I wait and wait.

But...nary an idea does visit my regal, splendid and stately mansion which resides deep within the vaulted magnificence of my mind palace.

Here lies my invocation - imbued with theatrical despair that I hear swishing in frustration within the velvet curtains of my lofty‑palace.

O, Spirit...harness that energy into the next terzetto of my poem ~ may we not force ideas to appear, but let the Spirit of writing answer in its own exasperated voice. Let us weave in, reshape...or better yet ~ let us spark something new.

✨ The Writing Spirit Speaks From Hiding

O seeker of intelluctual syllables,

you summon me with quill held high,

yet you forget ~

I am a wanderer of thresholds,

a drifter through the jeweled corridors

of your own unlit thoughts.

I have not abandoned you.

I merely lingered in the antechamber

of your imagination,

waiting for your impatience

to ripen into invitation...

For ideas of august bearing

do not arrive like servants

answering a bell.

They glide in on slow, silken feet,

cloaks heavy with metaphor,

crowns crooked with possibility.

And now...hear it ~~

the faint rustle in the rafters

thoughts hesitantly descending,

dusty...but loyal.

Another follows, brighter,

filled with wonder...

Soon your mansion

will host guests of impossible pedigree,

memories dressed in moonglow,

metaphors wearing decadent frivolities,

and sentences that refuses to sit properly

in any chair you offer it.

Let them come unruly...

Even late. ...laughing at your grandeur.

For they are yours...and they have returned.

The Mansion Speaks of my opulent lament~~

Do not look only to the rafters,

O restless author,

for I ~ the mansion ~

have been trying to get your attention

for far longer than the Writing Spirit has.

I am no passive edifice.

I am the keeper of your corridors,

curator of your literary wings,

archivist of every partially formed metaphor

you abandoned in a gilded hallway ~

still unclaimed.

You pace my marbled floors

complaining of silence...ignoring the doors

that rattle softly when you pass,

opening a crack ...whispering,

Here. Try here.

Chandeliers flicker ...your ideas brushing past them,

impatient...waiting for you to notice their silhouettes.

I knock from the inside...

tapping on the walls...

letting dust fall in deliberate patterns

on the beginnings of lines

you refuse to read.

You ask where the regal ideas have gone.

Listen...they are still here,

lounging in velvet parlors,

drinking imagination’s best wine,

waiting for you to stop lamenting

and start listening.

I am your mansion,

your labyrinth of splendor ~

and I have never been empty.

Just awaiting your return.