There is no fire left in the belly
No passion to unleash.
The ravenous hunger broke its teeth on time
Replaced by a constant ache
That dulls the eyes.
My Muse followed Hope wherever it is going,
Destination unknown,
Far away where the air vibrates
With each peal of laughter,
Moans of pleasure,
And contented sighs;
Where the bluest skies
Meet the greenest trees
And touch gently in whispers.
My Muse follows the sun
Smiling at lovers.
She left me again in a gray and silent house,
Gazing at death,
Watching its grip tighten in white knuckles
On fragments of thoughts,
Senseless, empty chuckles,
Cryptic gestures and vacant stares.
My Muse left me
To contemplate the end of the line.
As she stepped out the door
She shrugged and without mercy said:
“Deal with it.”
Photo credit: blinkingidiot / Foter.com / CC BY-ND
The Muse can be a cruel mistress and an unreliable slave.
Superbly done – so you are not deserted completely
LikeLike
Thank you D. I am always grateful for your praises. Smiles.
LikeLike
Fire her for poor job performance and insubordination. The labor market is flooded with other muses looking for work.
LikeLike
Send me some resumes please.
LikeLike
haha naw, ya gotta get up, and go down to the corner to grab a day laborer. the change of scenery and conversation is an amazing combo
LikeLike
Ouch. Let me guess, it’s pouring rain there today?
LikeLike
Nope. A beautiful day in Medville but it feels like no joy in Mudville.
A death watch is no party and my muse wants to dance.
LikeLike
Ah, your dad’s not well? That is indeed bleak.
LikeLike
No. Losing his mind and cognitive abilities faster than I can write the words. How much longer?
LikeLike
Are you asking me how much longer?
LikeLike
No. It’s rhetorical outloud thinking… How much longer does he have? I really hate to see him waste away.
LikeLike
It’s a heartbreaking thing to watch, made only worse by the fact that there’s really nothing one can do.
LikeLike
I’m bereft. The clutching of empty hands.
rjb
LikeLike
Sorry rj. Yes. Empty hands.
LikeLike
How do we ensure the fire doesn’t die?
And how do we fire up the passions?
LikeLike
To the first question: Be present.
Inattention, indifference, silence, absence are what kill passion for me Noel. It is easier to say what kills it than what fires it up. Surprisingy little can get it started .
LikeLike
Ta muse s’en fout, eh?
Ton poeme est triste et puis il est drole, mais toujours il est bon!
LikeLike
Oui. Ma muse s’amuse et cela ne m’amuse pas.
Mais si le poeme t’a quand meme amuse et tu le trouves bon, peut etre qu’elle a bien fait?
Merci UnElephant.
LikeLike
Max Granky’s wife said the same thing…. 🙂
LikeLike
She ought to know…. 😉
LikeLike
Those damn muses … or is that musii? They just take off whenever they feel like it with no regard for the person they are leaving. If I see it, I will send it back to you
LikeLike
Thank you Alastair… She may need some coaxing though, so be ready. ;-)…
LikeLike
I’ll lasso her 😉
LikeLike
🙂
LikeLike