I thought you were my muse,
Yet you disappoint me daily.
I cannot see without you;
Cannot think.
I've lost you.
You left me.
How could you?
I miss your little jokes,
Your snippets of conversation
Muttered in my eager ear;
Your bristly whiskers tickling.
I miss your plush presence
As you dangle round my neck.
My shoulder is bare and light
Without your shifting weight.
The thoughts that once flowed free
Stay now bottled;
Untapped.
They have no way to reach the stone.
My muse has gone;
Has left me stranded
Far out away from shore
Without a raft or wave
To ride.
When you were here
I could soar;
Could swoop and dive and soar.
Now I sit grounded
Without wings.
They are gone with you.
If you return
Then will I soar again;
Your weight to guide me;
Your mumbles inspire me.
If it is true that creativity is within
Then it takes a muse to bring it out.
It does not leak to the surface
Of its own volition.
It must be coaxed.
What if creativity is not within?
If it were without?
The muse whispers it.
The muse creates.
Once you whispered in my ear,
Unselfishly
Willing me to create.
I once belittled you,
Your small, insignificant form,
Your grating, hissing voice.
I thought I could create,
But I was wrong.
Now I pine.
I mope.
I need
Your ideas.
I cannot create.
I never could.
I thought you served me,
But now I know
It is I-
I who serve you,
A slave to my slave.
The chisels sag in my hand.
Damp clay
Mingles with the splash
Of hopeless tears.
Shall I send someone for you?
Will you resist?
Will you flee?
Will you return to me?
Little furry dude!
Oh, for a moment
I thought you were my museā¦
