Bloody Writer

(On the second eve of Robert McKee)

Stories, told and untold, 
breathe life into the shells,
us.

Set-ups and payoffs, positive 
and negative charges ignite each
scene.

If Aristotle were to meet
me on the porch of my dreams
tonight,

he would scold me for asking
such obvious questions about poetic
devices.

I have hours to write, yet time
knows not the monster that eats
pages

as I pen them.

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