My Muse Is Gone

My muse is gone
Or went on strike!
What must I do
To soothe her ills
What must I say
To see her back?

In the darkness
Beyond the fence of sanity
She sits and pouts
Twirling her hair
She’s mad at me
That much is sure
What must I give
To soothe her mind?

I take a step
And another
She stands ready
Looking to flee
I beg and plead
“Please please come back”
“Whatever it is I have done
Tell me I swear I will undo.”

With eyes like coal
That flash with fire
Her hand shoots out
Finger pointing
Her voice is raw
As one who screamed
And she declares most forcefully:
“You lied!”

Taken aback I stumble back
Spreading my hands
Eyes opened wide
I fake surprise, astonishment
“What. Are. You. Talking. About?”

Her face narrows
Her nose wrinkles
In that instant
I know I’m doomed
Her cry rises to heaven
From all the trees the ravens fly
And croak and form a great circle
“You dare protest your guilt?
When every word you say is vile?
Your promise to me long ago
Was to listen to me and write!”

She takes a step, then another
I stumble back, struck with horror
Her hair glows with her power
A shade of violet mixed with blood
“Ah!” I stutter.
“Pity, pity! Do not harm me!”
As I fall to my knees.
“I am a fool, as you well know
And I forgot, yes I forgot!”

Suddenly cool and quite tranquil
Her voice softens and runs
Like a creek’s subtle babble
“You are the most miserable wretch I know
I will help you, of course
But you must listen to me
And not care what others say”

She takes my hand into her own,
lifts me up back to my feet.
“Come, let us go back to the page
And let us see what we can do.”

Originally written on Medium in February 2016.

© 2016 Christopher Mahan