Word Weaver

A soft scratching comes from her room,

Awoken from her sleep by

Inspiration. Onto her loom

She weaves her words, soon snaring my

Mind, lost in her tale, doom

Overcome by strength and lie.

I was swept away as if by a broom,

But soon she'll stop and leave it lie,

And the scratches die in her room,

Inspiration has flown by…