The Inkling

 
While the kettle sang
the inkling stared up
at the predawn sky
tried to pick out the dagger
shimmering on Orion's belt
She wondered if inspiration
might come from light years away
or would it be the same familiar
ache inside
driving her words
to a dead end of feeling
Never knowing what she would write
when she would die
or what happens next
the unkindest cut of all