My Other Self
Cannot create without my muse
Why on earth did she choose
To desert, this moment, need her so
Last few days a tale of woe.
Pen is infertile cannot write
Completely miserable, dejected sight
Half written odes litter floor
Walk sounds good slam the door.
Forest obvious place to go
Muse will sit there this I know
Under green canopy, I will find
Other self silent, slowly unwind.
Strangely no one can see my muse
Even though she does enthuse
My writing depends on forest magic
Should she desert how very tragic.
POETRY MUSE
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by:
Beata Agustin
26/04/2022
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