Muse

A poem about the joys and sorrows of writing.

My muse sat with me, holding my hand
The moon hung low, a sliver at best
Her steady breathing steadied me, too
She helped me lay my fears to rest

With quill in hand, my journey began
My throbbing heart shook in my chest
As word for word my thoughts took flight
My muse thought it best to bid me a good night

I begged, I pleaded, I urged her to stay
But it was all in vain, for she still went away

The sun grew cold as I waited for my muse
But she did not return, and flowers began to wilt
Enraged, I gathered my works and lit a fuse
And burned to the ground all that I had once built

Sickened, I turned away gasping and tried
To regain my breath, although I just cried
"I'm fine," I told them, although I just lied
And that, my dear friend, was the day that I died