SIMPLE

Silence was wonderful, relieving, dauntless. In the still unsettled spirit of the Pantheon Micah had been on a quest to find the perfect place to write. The library was okay, but sometimes packed with people trying to find a scroll on their parents, some information to broaden their understanding of where the came from, and who they were. He was not yet so bothered. mythology might have played a huge part in shaping his poetry, like any patriotic Irish writer, but now it seemed too mundane, too obvious.

He used his pen wisely. Once the ink ran out he might not be able to find another, and the same went with his notebook. His handwriting had become small and illegible, only he could read it, and then through the power of memory rather than making sense of the waves crushed against each other on the page.

The sigh he let out was long and irritated, his brain stalling even with a prime location to think. There wasn't a single metaphor he was coming up with that he could extend across a poem about his situation. A bird in a cage, a fox in a trap, a ghost lost. His inability to think was frustrating him terribly, but not showing all that much. To the outsider, he looked like he was in need of a further distraction, glancing up at the crystal chandeliers and the carved marble headpieces.
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@peep