Menu:

 
By Sabrina Russo
For a long while
no words came to me
as I awaited some intuitive spark
to remind me
as to how written words could possibly
describe this.
I have read, yes,
but this is by degrees
the greater experience,
for a book's pages place separation
between myself
and this reality.
I am in the drawing room,
and although I see no other,
here indeed is Jane Austen
Lord Byron
Emily Brontë.
I cannot distinguish fiction from
reality--
would I find a Muse
in this Scottish dawn
if the echoes of the inspired
did not sound from every brick?
I exist in anachronism
and am filled with the
comprehension
that my predecessors
(famed writers!)
were merely mediums
for the unspoken voice
of a moment
in the overwhelming historical
now.
 


Comments




Leave a Reply