There’s a test I should be writing
but I sigh, it’s more inviting
when my muse sings, “write poetry.”
I say my work, it must prevail,
coffee, my potion, will not fail
me, but, she, my own, can foresee–
no sexy, fierce Venus in fur,
she gently coos, and I concur
a sign, I see, of what will be.
I wrote a nove otto for my first time using the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing prompt.
This week, the words, test/potion/muse/own/sign, seemed too perfect to pass on. So I didn’t.