Playmates--yet another journal poem

The sun brightens again,
tearing the night from her sleepless
cold rage.
Another bleary morn breaks.
Playmates have all gone to bed,
after one more strand
of squeaking false victimhoods--
prancing, swishing, swaying, neighing
to her captive audience--
as I lay poetry,
lines vibrating as fingers reach
for keys in vain.
Out, out damned spot,
let the bloody voice find air
so that I can scream
and get it over with.

The blissful hiss of the Muse
whispers, echoing the lessons
dredged from deep wells,
a dim dreamy radiance
now remembered.
Tomorrow's eve will find
one more priestess returned
to rejoice in her Mother Moon--
only a few more clicks,
keystrokes pushing the Cancerian emotions
back within their natural element,
padlocking the casing
as they have yet to be earned.