Lights are on in a basement that should be empty
figures move silhouetted against ritual
and a candle ever burning
False life gifted by a passing thought
robed in the smoke of extinguished fire
is thrown against stone and shattered
again and again until the pieces are dust
And why is the light over the doorway so welcoming?
beckoning entry inward to electrified shadows
beyond that gateway hung with curtains
of silk and starlight
into a room smoke-filled and thick with mystery’s haze
What kills your creativity?