Teri Eckels

My muses are snuffed out
one by one
like candles after a holy day,
like stars at the end of a summer’s night
(but never to return)
I stare at the barren white
and it back, into my eyes,
taunting me;
making sane men shriek
and docile women want to
pluck out their hair
one
by
one.
It’s a wonder
I don’t join
Poe and Plath,
Keats and Crane,
me in my
City of Bridges
(Not City of Lights)
some people understand,
some act as if they understand,
some just act.
The biggest question is
who
is
who?