I wake early on weekends to a ritual of writing and
drinking the life giving elixir. My temple is the abode
of the green mermaid, where she summons the weak
with her siren songs. It’s said that she has no soul.

This is where words are born in my mind and placed in
ambiguous order; meanings known only to my soul until
the rational mind unscrambles the mess. It’s hard to be
profound with the loud world music in the background.

Trouble brews when the temple is filling to capacity. They
want my table. They don’t know I’m trying to weave a
fabric of words that will change their understanding of (place
question mark here). I am lost without my muse.

A change of venue is in order. I’ve lost my purpose and
words. My teeth are stained and my mind is no longer malleable.
I’m invisible to the passion that once inhibited my soul. I’m cast
in an ocean of blackness where the green mermaid reigns.