If my Muse were a Personal Trainer

Dear Soul,

I’m putting you on a
strict diet
of pickles and paradoxes.

Drink plenty of water to avoid:
dehydration
delusion
dementia
and the likes.

Keep away from small children.

Set your alarm clock when you wake up
every morning.

You will be a poet in no time.

Sincerely,

Peter Piper

P.S. It is best to be bare-foot
at all times.

Granted

I think my muse has left me.
Given up.
Gone to find another hand to push.
Not mine.
I am no longer worthy.

I guess this is what I get
for lamenting my solitude
when I was never really alone.

All this time
I was surrounded by
the most beautiful muse.
She whispered wonderful,
torturous
ideas into my soul.

But she wasn’t very good
at drying my tears.
Indeed, she used them
to hydrate the wind she commanded.
And I resented her for this.

Nonetheless,
she was my faithful companion.

Not one to abide
by circadian rhythms,
she would wake me from my sleep,
beg to play while I was working,
and taunted me
with her most titillating sounds
when I was bound by my bath.

Even when she wasn’t whispering,
she was there.
I felt her
in every sporadic moment
of inexplicable inspiration.

But now she is gone.
And there are no tears.
And there is no wind.
And I have no ideas in my soul.

Now I know—
Now I feel—
Alone.