Flicker

I don’t wait for lightning to strike anymore.

There is a flicker within me
that reminds me of the
flashbulbs I found with my
vintage Polaroid.

It pops and fizzles
in a grand burst of light
illuminating all —
and then it is gone
and with it,
all of the shine it brought.

I dismiss inspiration, as of late,
not waiting for the moment
that the bulb pops again.

Back in the old days,
ideas would thrum through me
goosebumps following in their
musical path.

One sweaty evening,
sitting in the cocoon of my father’s
aggressively-air-conditioned diesel-fueled truck,
the idea for my first novel
came over me like
a bolt of lightning.

But I don’t wait for lightning to strike
anymore.
I’m here every morning
and every evening
fingers flying in their ritual dance
creating more fervently
for their discipline.

Writing is not an art, always,
I am learning.
It is a science —
the science of your butt in a chair
and your hands carving
new worlds from

thin air.

Mistress of words and Truth.

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