When Writing is Near

I can vividly see the clay vessel

With art so divine, from the gods did it come

Precariously resting upon a stone pedestal

Its lid secured, tight as a drum.

The piercing lightning exposes

Every corner of my soul

While the growls of thunder

Awaken deeply buried fears

And though I try to turn aside,

My toils and vices I cannot hide.

A woman stands as if an orchid

Her hand grips the lid, it trembles.

Her eyes leak tears, her face contorted.

Perhaps Hades is what this now resembles.

The demons surround, they feast on fear

I only wish I could find some hope

This is what it is like when writing is near.