POETRY

The Muse

A lyrical poem

Image by from

Each boring day and lonely night
I call upon my Muse
I beg her to return to me
but still I am refused

I wait before a black abyss
I stare into a void
Her silence robbing me of peace
depriving me of joy

How could she leave me wondering
condemned to such dismay
Without a word to comfort me
nor faith enough to pray

Is not an artist’s yearning need
her duty to assuage
A poet’s only worth the words
he’s written on the page

Her garden where ideas grow
I used to call my home
where winding with the river’s flow
inspired I would roam

With trees that stood on sturdy roots
and reached into the sky
abundant with the sweetest fruit
to keep me satisfied

But now the rivers have run dry
and withered are the trees
A desert spreads before my sight
as far as I can see