Much spoken of lately by poets
Hearing cliché-ridden voices, the muse waits
For no man’s inspiration
To come into view.
As all this must come but to naught,
Ennui seems equally ineluctable—
The muse is a deaf-mute, savoring
Nothing save what appears to strike her
Like a bolt from the blue.
Love the way this is clinch'd by the telling terminal rhyme.
ReplyDelete(Closure may be said to be artificial, but don't tell the dead that what's happened to them was somehow unnatural.)
Imagining the deaf-mute Muse with a quiver of thunderbolts at the ready, preparing to strike down the uninspired... gratuitously, arbitrarily, and with great glee.
Outis? she asks wordlessly.
And back comes the anvil chorus: "Who, me?"
When I first read your comment, I thought it said “clichéd by the telling terminal rhyme” and thought haha, Tom really got me where it hurt.
ReplyDeleteSo let the muse amuse herself and fire away--it looks like I’m the guilty one!