Muses are fickle

They seduce with wild abandon

Then leave in the middle of the night

Take flight

Leaving nothing but scent and stain

So you pick up your favorite writing tool

Whisper a prayer

Hope for a benediction

When inspiration doesn’t flow

You force yourself to spread the words

Sordidly

But a forced poem is like an arranged marriage

Awkward

Unknown

Artificial

As for love it may grow over time

Didn’t carry you to the altar though

Better to wait for that floozy

Who runs around inspiring the neighbors

Leaving you to wear horns

Knowing that she’ll return

With a poetically transmitted disease

And an encouraging word

Amen

David Trudel  © 2012