Mutiny

Echoes were the only ones to show today
Words would not come. They are soldiers
on the cutting room floor, laying
in eerie silence

Ingrates and deserters, the whole lot of them
awaiting marching orders from Muse, they claim
An alphabet army playing possum
They have me convinced

I am left with a sword that spills
not blood, but ink
and nary a comrade in sight