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.