A Writer’s Lament

My muse has gone missing!
She just up and left.
Abandoned, alone…
I’m confused and bereft.

I’ve looked high and low,
But she’s not to be found.
Dagnabit! Why, oh why, did she
Have to go underground?

The world slows to a crawl
When my muse isn’t here.
Plainly, she is the one
Who shifts me out of low gear.

Without her, ’tis true
I’m at a sad loss.
For in most facets of life,
My muse is the boss.

What’s for dinner?
Who knows—I’m uninspired.
Want to go for a hike?
No thanks—I’m lethargic and tired.

The house is a shambles,
My hair is unkempt.
Everything’s wrong;
I’m utterly verklempt!

And writing’s the endeavor
Where my muse is most missed.
My creativity, it seems,
Has obliged to cease and desist.

I’ll struggle along,
Toiling but stumbling,
My efforts subpar,
Lackluster and bumbling.

Until her return,
Whenever that may be,
A frightening truth remains:
It’s all up to me.

Well, look who’s come back,
Having been “out for a stroll.”
Immune to my displeasure,
She thinks herself quite droll.

My irritation is growing;
I’m increasingly vexed.
Her amusement quelled,
She is genuinely perplexed.

It’s always been me, she explains:
I was the one running the show.
While she may have scattered some ducks,
It was left to me to put them all in a row.

I ponder this revelation—
It’s something I should have known.
My muse is a great help and mentor,
But I do all right on my own.

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© 2014 by M.P. Witwer • All rights reserved

 

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