My Muse

Has she left me? I wonder. ‘It’ is not the same as it once was— The passion and the playfulness, The tumbling of words Finding appreciative expression. Bereft of ideas, bereft of thought, All my efforts coming to naught. Dreams of she holding me tight Once sparked metaphors deep in the night. Now, it’s ages anything was penned, And this was never how it was meant. Feelings, emotions, and love— They are all very much there. But nothing flows from me. And that is so rare. You, the readers, might as well ask: “What the hell? Why the frustration?” I’ll say, “That is not the question. My beloved is with me- I don’t refuse But I still wonder, where is my Muse?”