My fingers are sore from playing guitar,

like a secret glow.

I can feel the calluses where the strings hit.

A couple songs were magic

and I was transported to that better world,

the other place where my muse lives.

She has invited me many times

but I can seldom find my way.

Now I’m existing in the afterglow,

half here, half there,

tired and happy.

Everything I do will be somehow charged,

I trail sparks of energy,

tinkerbell’s magic dust.

I will do better because I’ve seen I can,

because I touched it,

and as long as I remember

(it won’t last long, damn it)

I’ll be able to spark the magic again

here in the ordinary world.

by Cher Bibler