My muse keeps teasing me
she plays hide and seek
wears the cloak of indifference
or is it complacence?
She believes
my creativity will destroy
and ideas will shrivel
in the ensuing barrenness
if she stops waving her wand
Ah! Black though my humor be
and dimmer yet what it spews
the offspring of my thoughts
will not be stillborn babies
I will not cease to write
For, my sweet muse,
I’ve captured you for life
you are in my eyes, my being
in my perception and my creation.
Will you survive if I don't?
