The muse pants, heavily,
pregnant with her maudlin charms
words bound together
like a double helix
of inspired DNA,
chromosomes of divinity
in the shapes of
line
stanza
and verse
The muse grunts, forcefully,
labored breaths caress my ears
the tools of my craft
lay before me,
between wide spread thighs,
and there is silence
as I feel
and hear
the meter
The muse bares down, weakly,
body rigid with expectation
everything is there
all the pieces as they should be
precautions had been taken
and still,
still
there is no life,
the words
fall flat
The muse pushes, sickenly,
resigned to see it done
I cradle the waste
hold it limply in my hands
I am repulsed
and saddened
because I expected more,
better
of myself and my muse,
of our creation
this thing we had meant to give life
this dead thing
born still from my passion
and her inspiration
has no life
It shall rest on a shelf
with the others,
my collection,
the extant ones without life