Idle Musings

  My muse is dead, muse is gone

  The pen lays silent; its ink dried on.

  For inspiration has no price

  Yet I cannot afford,

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  The strength of will,

  The power of mind,

  To write a single word.

  Her wings be cut, her voice be silent,

  Tears are all she gave.

  My muse is dead, my muse is gone

  If only I’d pressed save.

  To stare forever at an empty page

  Writer’s block in writer’s hand

  To look upon a pristine canvas

  And wish ‘twere not so bland

  Mayhaps inspiration is like lightning

  Energy pure and true

  And yet if it be lightning

  One strike will never do

  All alone, empty headed, deadlines stared down dead time.

  And yet when the mood takes me

  My muse is once more mine.