Fickle is the Muse’s favour,
Alighting in the minds of but a fortunate few.
Like the furtive fluttering of gossamer wings,
It tickles the senses and awakens one’s sleeping spirit
To endless possibilities
And effortless creation.
Until, that is, it takes flight,
Seemingly on a whim.
Gone as if it never was, leaving us wanting,
Leaving naught but a terrible lack,
An absence,
A void.
An endless drought of ideas that stretches inexorably on and on.
Oh, but to be at Inspiration’s mercy,
To walk that fine line between its benevolence and its indifference,
To brave that razor’s edge against which all artists bleed their truth into life…
What a wonderfully dreadful place to be.
About the Creator
Christine Meush
I like to write about whatever randomness my mind can come up with, which can vary quite a bit.
Join me for poetry and short stories about love, life, horror, sci-fi, and who knows what else!
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