Betrayed by my Muse

Burnt coffee, hours old
Still warms in the pot.
The clock a metronome,
Words and melody forgot.

My muse planned to meet me
To write poem and prose.
Black heat from hot asphalt
Assails my nose.

I feel the betrayal.
My palms are wet.
My muse has betrayed me.
Still no words written yet.

My heart beat quickens
As the deadline draws near.
My cursor blinks blankly
The clock’s tick fills my ears.

“You’re attacking it wrongly,”
I hear from behind.
Abandoned no longer,
My muse by my side.

My fingers spring to life,
Keyboard’s clack barely audible.
Our words aren’t the best,
But the effort’s applaudable.

She’s back in my mind,
And characters grow.
From mists they spring forth;
Their stories we sow.

The sun peaks out.
Flowers bloom in the light.
Rainbows and demons,
The writer’s plight.

Bright days with my muse,
Fickle as she may be.
Warmth flows from above.
She’s back here with me.