An empty barren landscape,
This page which jeers and mocks me.
A snowy, silent field of void,
The enemy of my enemy.
My muse has left the building,
Her gleaming wings long fluttered past
And I am left with her replacement:
A salty satyr who reeks of ash.
He adds nothing to my silence,
Simply puffs on his cigar.
While I stare in shock at blinking cursors
Calling for her from afar.
She said she needed a vacation.
My mindless words were too much work.
Symphonies of notes I sang,
But they were useless, not of worth.
So I guess I’ll stare a little longer,
Choking on the smoky air.
Perhaps if my lungs explode
I’ll find the words I lost in there.
I hope she’s having fun,
My feisty, golden muse.
I hope she’s sitting on a beach somewhere
Drinking shots and losing shoes.
I’m certain she’ll return,
Once she’s had her fun.
She’ll come running back to untangle
All the wrong notes that I’ve spun.
Until then I’ll just be here
Staring blankly at the snow.
I’ll force the loathsome cursor forward
And tell the satyr it’s time to go.