My muse has disappeared... gone away.
I did not hear her go or hear the door slam...
or the car tires crunch on the loose gravel drive
as she backed out to go on her way...
to wherever.
I’d like to think I can write without her;
I am the one, after all, who pens the words
that bring tears of sorrow...or joy...or anger
to the seekers...who dream vicariously...
through my musings.
It is not as easy as I think... I try and try
but nothing strikes the right chord...
crumpled paper balls fall...discarded...
in and around the can where all my
refuse gathers.
Time moves so slowly when uninspired.
I wonder when she will return from away.
Should I check the door? Make sure it’s unlocked?
I do not want to prolong her absence
in any way.
This blank white page glares at me...
daring me to caress her with my pen...
with words that excite and set free...
but I cannot rise to yield what she craves!
Impotent, I fear.
I pace back and forth, but this just adds
to the frustration I am feeling.
If my muse were only here for a moment...
to plant one seed...provide a single spark...
I would burn.
I stand by the glass and look for her return;
I see her afar off and my heart jumps inside me.
I hear her voice. Can her lips be far behind?
One kiss and the floodgates open...and my passion
...flows! SF
