At three in the morning a poem wrote itself
Nudging me awake
I wrote in darkness
Moon not quite bright but unnecessary
Because it was automatic writing
Like the claims of those old Victorian Spiritualists
(Those whiskered men and corseted women)
Who insisted a greater power moved their pen across the paper.
I wrote endless pages of how the world and life
The pen moved in the dark
Creating words that shone
Neon? No, nuclear.
Exhausted, finally fell asleep
Woke up to see
The spiral notebook on the floor
Pen dangerously clutched in sleepy fingers
Ah, what did I write?
What did the Spirit dictate to me?
All those words scrawled across the pages
Pages and pages of indecipherability
Except for one word:
(c) 2014 ViataMaja