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My creative fountains have slowed to a trickle
My flashes of insight are not worth a nickel
My once mighty pen is as good as a pickle;
Where art thou my wayward muse?
I’ve searched for her in every room in my head
My brain is a ghost town and everyone’s fled
Except for poor Whimsy who seems to be dead;
Where art thou my wayward muse?
Gone are my plots and my points of view,
My similes, metaphors, idioms too
Figuratively speaking I’m literally through;
Where art thou my wayward muse?
She’s been my radiant guiding light
My Shekinah glory in a doubt-filled night
Her words had wings, like angels in flight;
Where art thou my wayward muse?
Perhaps it was I who forced her to flee
Away from my cynical hyperbole
And recent obsession with my bloggery;
Where are thou my wayward muse?
I never deserved a One so sublime
I hope she forgives me for wasting her time
Some blogs should be a syllabic crime;
Where art thou my wayward muse?
Is that her dulcet voice I hear?
Such lovely tones, so sweet and clear
It isn’t her, I stand corrected
But Whimsy who’s been resurrected
Joined by Wit and Wisdom too
Wordsmithering begins anew
Where art thou my wayward muse?
Who cares.
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