A Letter - To ________

    Greetings, my beloved. So many lonely hours have I toiled over this very desk, staring balefully into the night's abyss as it stared back at me, its single, unblinking eye holding vigil from behind the clouds -- so many words and ideas swarm in this haunted mind like spectral hornets (O, but the accursed buzzing sounds they make! How I would trade in an instant, this wretched hive with the serenity of the simpleton) --and still, not once have I writ to you with the proper manner such intimate letters are due. For that, I beg your pardon. 

It is my greatest hope that my letter finds you well, and in good spirits. As I do my best to write this by candlelight, I am squirrelled away on a rooptop, some storeys above the gates to Oz's Emerald City (such fantastic places my travels take me, love!). In the twilight of morning, I can see armies beginning to take positions. A war comes, my love -- and as Oz's official Bard, I've no choice but to bear witness, and write its verses. Even at great risk to life and limb. I shudder to think it, but should I not retu-- no. I dare not write it! I cannot. But know that I will return to you the instant my task is done, for there are sonnets to compose, and dark tales to spin. The call of the Muses is strong -- even here, across the endless desert, I can feel their harmonies teasing me, begging me to come home to their insatiable, monstrous appetites --and beneath them, the low growling undercurrent  of the Incubus' patient, calm breathing. Seething, he waits for me to tell his tale, so I will come when summoned. I fear my refusal would be unwise.

    The armies are beginning to rally, darling. I must keep moving and stay hidden, lest this tale go untold. I fear for my safety, but I dare not abandon my post, for you know better than anyone: penning these verses is the only way to ease my haunted mind, and put an end to these accursed nightmares. I will write again as soon as I am able. 

Cordially,

J. Cambridge.
April 14, 2016.

----