No inspiration today
Not one singular thought that could be caught
and weaved into a lace
of something not entirely reiterating.
The muse refuses to sway
from the laziness the cosmic shift had brought
hiding in the treacherous maze
of the mind that indulges in mitigating.
And what a wordsmith’s to do?
except for wallowing in despair
and drops of alcohol
cursing the fickle abomination
they decided to follow.
The wench hadn’t paid her dues
leaving and living with a flair
and has the gall
to ignore the time of creation
drowning the artist in sorrow.