It is time to write poetry and feel the words wax and wan within me. The tea curls hot in my chipped cup and, infused with music and sweet marzipan, I write. Today the moon magnetizes my pen.
The morning bursts behind me. Cold air turns the colors vibrant. Pale sunshine splashes and breaks across the muted landscape. The ink that bleeds across the pages of my leather-bound journal turns to ash that disintegrates in the wind.
The heartache of forever plays havoc with my pen. I eat of buttery almond cookies laced over with the white wine sunshine as the cream pages turn and I write of what was, what is, and what is to come.