A demon ate my muse,
Swallowed her up whole,
And left me to pick up the pieces.
Shards of untold stories;
Crumbs of opening verses;
A word here and there — incohesive at best;
Pictures without colours;
Shapes without form.
But the demon is full and happy, it seems.
Building a home inside of me,
Right where my muse used to be.
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen