This mouse is pale as paper, doesn’t eat. Lost, but it doesn’t try to find it’s way into the light.
Instead, at night, unseeing and unseen, it dips its feet into the poisoned ink, and in its agony begins to caper, to conjure up a wizard or a queen.
The Mouse sits on my shoulder through the night. Again, I sharpen my quills and drag my books into the light. But oh, the hours are long and I grow old.
Magic’s not wanted now, I whisper, spells will be mocked and songs are out of season.
All the more need for you, my Wizardess – all the more reason.
(A brace of night-mouse-magic-type-poems brought to mind by a Daily Post prompt: Because the Night)