She’s only wildly posturing.
In her red dance shoes, and shimmery
shawl, she’s shrouded,
and manoeuvring, cloaked
in a kind of magic, a spectacle.
She’s my muse. You’re bemused.
Enough is enough, you said.
All this while, a kind of subterranean
poetry lies. You asked for a time-out.
There you sat, eating a biscuit.
Prompt: I couldn’t quite believe it and almost was tempted to take it literally. A time-out poem, that’s Writers Digest Day 14 prompt. Okay I’m going to take it in my stride–by incorporating the idea into a poem. You are to do the same. You’re not going to take it lying down, are you? You’re allowed to eat a biscuit too, while that muse of yours go wandering off.