My Muse

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Frustrated by a dearth of words I sit in absent thought

My Muse has left me for another, suggestions come to naught

What use it is for her to linger where her scribe has lost his ink?

Why waste words prompting a man who cannot bear to think?

Perhaps she goes to disagree with sullen, self-absorbèd me

Her breath is better blown across a brain that chooses not to flee

One where results bring passion by, restoring faith from which words fly

A Muse can only but inspire

She cannot strike or build the fire.

My Muse - The Courage of Intimacy by Keith Ainsworth                                                                                                                                                                              4