Welcome to the Mercurial Muser

She delays endings as if she were Penelope, purposely weaving and unweaving words at her loom. Conjuring ancient languages long since put to rest—for no real purpose now but to know that they were once spoken, once alive, once voiced by someone who mattered. That they weren’t just convenient elegies to bury the dead—hung like stars around overgrown burial plots, or worn as shrouds to conceal the decay. That she hadn’t imagined it—this once-burning thing. That her time on that treasure-filled shore wasn’t a hand-sewn fever dream—its memory rushing past as if it were sand in an hourglass that suddenly slipped through trembling hands.

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Now she wakes in a bed far from Ithaca... far from the sparkling snow globe world she only ever briefly holds in her palms—shaking it now and then when the moment calls. Fingertips tapping on the glass of another life—to gaze upon the delicate, shining figures, to catch the glitter as it shimmers within the idyllic, frozen scene. She resists the urge to let her unhealed parts smash it to the floor just to set them free. 

For a time it was magic. It was magical for a time...

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