I Reassure Muse

My underactive mind takes my ideas swiftly away from us, Kicking them in mean ways into corners, under redundant debris. But wait I say, protesting It does no good; my status quo mind is done. Ideas are now kaput, thrown away in all directions Nothing tidy about her terribleness, certainly not cleansing or kind. I try to coax out my sensitive muse, but she is in hiding, terrified. Worn out and sad, for our underactive mind is insisting on its way. Wants concretes and absolutes, tired of imagination winning daily. Maybe tomorrow? I suggest to muse gently, stroking her faerie hair. Muse is in fetal position now, tucking her face under fluffy blanket. I reassure her gently as we drift to sleep in perpetual soul land, Knowing our ideas will be replenished and revived by morning.