Tears trickle down a faceless clock
No hands to push any tic or toc
Vagueness circles in uncontrolled outbursts without inclination to push forward or back.
Lost is the muse.
"It" once screamed my name in the dawning hours of sleepless dreams.
"It" made declarations to always become more than what ‘it' could ever hope to be.
Forgotten and set aside in a deathly silence; so easily celebrated.
Lost is the muse.
An object of ‘its' affection….utterance of heavenly delights found this weary traveler.
Fragrant bouquets gladly delivered to suppress ‘its' thirst and hunger for more.
Fresh springs quenched a parched land of reality and fantasy….one and the same.
Lost is the muse.
A muted spirit realizes a newfound desire to spill truths in reckless fashion.
For an untapped power inside releases imprisoned demons to bring about ‘its' demise.
A game played so eloquently, a haunting and incessant laugh echo's against ‘its' shaking and quivering shadow.
Lost is the muse.
Now it is MY time to turn the tides of etched words into my unique chaotic beauty.
I beseech thee....I challenge thee....I mock thee with glee!
For my delicate hands will release the locked vaults of timeless declarations, while my audience awaits in anticipation as ‘it' observes my calculated moves like a hawk.
Will 'it' cling to every word, of every line, of every verse, of every stanza, of every creative piece of literary art, at every perceptive level?
Lost is the muse and for what ‘it' has done to me? I declare on this foolish day, that I both love and despise ‘it'.
