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.
I know that feeling.
as do I. How dare they take vacations??!! This is beautifully written.
Mmmm. Emptiness is insufferable. So much of the time, I am miserable but creative. And then when misery and all other emotion leaves, there’s nothing left. Or so it seems. Perhaps your muse is giving you a needed breather and catching a bit of shut-eye before returning full-force soon. I like the last couple of poems about/to your muse. Sort of like poetic “notes to self.” Very cool.
You’ve summed it up well here.
The wind can’t help itself.
It will return to you, ready or knot.
This was a good non-idea.
Just like this thought I didn’t have.
You can never be sure why that happens
you do not know if that is what you get for lamenting loneliness.
Relating to other people is always a mistery,
It is not all because of you, maybe its nothing cause of you
You can never know.
You only know when its the end.
Muses? We don’t need no stinking muses!!!