The poet without a muse sits in pause mode,
Like a bud about to bloom, but cruelly sapped of all life force,
Waiting impatiently for that last surge, to flower and flaunt its florid hues,
Or else to rot into revolting compost, unseen.
The poet without a muse, lounges with a brain simmering
In impotent rage, turning into mushy rice pudding.
Grain, milk and sugar break down with dramatic sobs, hug each other
And dissolve into sticky tears, sweet, but rice pudding is inconsequential.
The poet without a muse, Stares inwards at words that have decided to retire,
On the outside the world plays out its myriad seductions in technicolour,
Beckoning like red lipped starlets out of fading posters on small town walls,
With the swagger of moustached men and the flutter of swooning damsels.
Yet these scenes have no allure,
The poet without a muse continues to wear her forlorn, inward gaze.
Like a peacock with skeletal feathers, a crippled cheetah, a defanged cobra,
A waste beyond all that found in decaying dump yards,
The poet without a muse waits for some strain of melody,
Some human form to remove, the accumulated burden of time,
That only those who watch the clock’s hand move, from inside their own heads,
With no light, no sound, nor anything that means something,
Could ever know – the poet without a muse.