My Muse

my muse

can hardly raise her heavily burdened head

chiding herself for not inspiring something all anew

there is only so much sorrow

to darken the day with

there is only so much joy to wet and wash it away with

and though sometimes

she paints a familiar theme

an oft defining scene

i am if anything a canvas

full of depth and blankness bereft

never left wanting

never left without

a touch of her healing colours

foolish zenith

sometimes
having reached
a foolish zenith

 reason surpasses
the enduring calls of
past words

all that is subjected to difference
seems thinly veiled as the last

all disguising the one truth
with no more than a
used epiphany

am i thought?

just for fun, when writing the piece “lit/unlit” light was the word that rushed forth…

a word
rushes forth
at every chance
“am i needed?
“am i sought?”

it repeats itself
like a child recites
“can i or can i not?”

shamelessly
pandering
clumsily
meandering
teasing forgetfulness
like it wants to be caught

but ever ready
with a toothy grin
“am i needed?
how ’bout now?
am i thought?”