The
Writer's Voice
The World's Favourite Literary Website
Stolen
By
Rusty Broadspear
The little old lady who sucks the
breath from sleeping children,
Decided, that night, aeons ago, to deviate.
She fused with my sleep, she stole my inspiration,
And then was gone, back to her routine nightly mission.
A singular dark memory of this event, so recently surfaced.
I exist no more, as she scavenges through my very molecules,
Like a gargantuan gargoyle pillaging the stars.
She finds what she wants. Life stopping laughter rips through the universe.
I fly in every direction, in multitudes of pain, loneliness, desolation.
Following false oases, false radiance, imperfect promise.
Time bends and stretches, thickly and agonisingly slowly,
Lazily into the past, petrifying present and forbidding future.
I sip water from the stream, living my days as one,
All the diverse foods of life served to me, I now accept.
Not questioning their multiplicity, my inspiration's gone
To the little old lady who sucks the breath from sleeping children.
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