My own polite dance song

What story would I tell, I wonder, were I to wander into a camp and be demanded of a poignant one? And though I yearn to be a muse, is it,? would it be? even better yet to be inspired? Memories are imminent, threatening; things that warm and warn and wear me down. In the dark of middle night I try to think a truth to tell, some thing to be captured, some thing to bring release:
come up empty to overfilling.
Somewhere between the things I’ve seen and done and loved lives a poignant inspiration afraid to death of its maker and the power she possesses to diminish its meaning. Only the strum of an electric acoustic and a room lit with candles could make this terrorist moment seem so soft.

And it does.

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