Tonight, I may have lost a masterpiece muse.
You know, that one muse to which you attach yourself.
Or the kind of muse whose inspiration is like a bright light.
Shining so bright in the night
That sloth begins to wither and fade.
Like the art made from those with a broken heart
Or treading atop the briny sea foam of loneliness.
I wonder if the muse ever realizes it.
What does the muse do?
Because no matter the outcome there will be a piece…
A piece of art.
A piece of heart.
Strewn about a canvas
Or shattered across a fret.
But let it be known:
The artist can't be inspired by an intangible muse.
Muscle must be grabbed
If it to be plucked from marble.
Songbirds must have a rhythm,
If it is to match your tune.
The forest must be set ablaze,
If it is to be called a conflagration.
Which is how it feels to lose your inspiration,
Putting out a fire
Because you wanted to paint the forest on fire
Yet you can't paint fire
Because you don't have the color red.