Poetic Catharsis

My wordy purgatory

locks poems in slate

cells and feeds

them a full bodied

diction diet.

A sphinx

guards them

at the bridge

I must cross

between anima

and animus.

Behind me,

chimera ideas

bare their teeth

and compete for

figurative flavor.

On the twine rail,

splintered words

dive for my palms

and itch beyond

nail’s depth.

With curious blinks

and ethereal tone

she tests, “How do you

find one cicada

amidst the chorus?”

I pause,

mist droplets

luge off my brow

in a race

to evaporate.

Rapids whisper

below personal

and collective

unconscious.

Say everything,

censor nothing

for threads of inspiration

to permeate the mortar.

Stomping their hooves,

I remind antsy ideas

that poems are extracted

 in patience.

 “I write the melody.”

With stoic lips she replies,

“Today, the poem

dies.”