The Muse

Moving effortlessly across the page, the ink flowed,

and on the page
words tumbled into the white open space of neutrality,
creating new worlds in paragraphs of beauty and wonder,
with vistas stretching out to the far corners of the blank universe,
sculpting out new sanctuaries on a wilderness of white.
A gentle tap was heard.

The pen continued on its uninterrupted journey of deliverance,
and on that journey
mountains rose from the depths and great valleys swept across the land,
mystical creatures danced with mythical peoples in realms of fantasy,
vast meandering rivers swept along great chasms and channels to seas of blue,
great worlds of myth and magic rising from the depths of the papyrus.

The tapping becomes a thought.

The hand ploughs on through the barren fields of endeavour,
and in those fields
Seedling civilisations sprout and spread their tentacled thoroughfares,
great minarets pirouette and spiral upwards, dancing with the stars,
gold encrusted temples glitter and shine with sparkling magic,
and the world becomes reality within the imagination.

Thoughts become distraction

Words clashed and clattered into the incoherent
chaos of confusion.

Rhyme and reason reached into the abyss and were
consumed in the carnage of calamity.
Sentences spluttered and splintered their way
across the page,
making no sense,

following no pattern,

creating no beauty,
merely leaving a trail of crows scratches upon the paper.

Riven by pain, the hand stopped.

The pen fell silent.

The muse was gone.

© Fergus Martin

2014