She lay sprawled on the bed,
Papers strewn around-
Pen held poised;
Waiting for Inspiration to strike…
Her eyes wandered lazily,
Seeking her errant Muse;
Vacantly she gazed
Out the window,
The railway tracks mocked at her…
Words flirted shamelessly,
Like fickle lovers;
Now here, next nowhere-
They slipped her clutches;
As she gave chase…
Language laughed aloud in scorn,
As she scraped the-
Bottom of creativity;
For a stray morsel…
Thoughts were empty,
Emotions ran dry,
Life glided by-
Without ripples;
Nothing shook her placid stupor…
She closed her eyes-
In mute surrender;
And slipped into-
A wordless slumber…
2 comments:
Interesting piece, especially this stanza:
Language laughed aloud in scorn,
As she scraped the-
Bottom of creativity;
For a stray morsel…
and
Words flirted shamelessly,
Like fickle lovers;
But even in these stanzas, some combinations challenge my ability to grasp their true import:
like "stray" morsel and shamelessly flirting lovers being "fickle".
As for "life glided by- without ripples", perhaps the errant muse, the inspiration is these ripples. Like order emerges from chaos, most poetry rises from internal commotion.
Awesome. This is one of the few poems i have read about not being able to write when you actually have written it quite well.
God bless your muse(s).
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