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| "I dance with words across parchment" |
At a Bar in South Philadelphia I had a muse for a day, and as perfunctory as she appeared she was gone. She brought with her an idea, a re-emergence of word, an end to a sonnet, and a start to a narrative. As her whisper haunts, I dance with words across parchment. Each shifting foot leaving a pattern of soft curvatures and subtle delicacies. My lines manifest a delineation of her script. With each statement comes a punctuality, and then a denouement. The ink dries upon the paper as the masquerade comes to a close. She has absconded with my mask and placed before me a reflection. I stare at the interloper. I put a hand to my face and so does he. Realization has struck and I ruminate on his past and find it abhorrent. I reach for my guise, it is gone. Stolen by my muse only to be replaced by a manuscript of inflections with no lines to dance upon.
-Dennis Birtch
