Muse A.W.O.L


Your prognosis isn’t good son,
Sorry you bought that new pen.
You see when all is said and done
It’s unlikely you’ll see your muse again.

My pincer like fingers grip the chair,
As I grind my teeth like mill wheels.
My look turns into a  glassy stare,
And I realise that nothing will be the same again,

Ever.

Or until the next poem ?

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s