The Muse has fled the empty mind,
The pen has stilled, the words are gone.
Inspiration is sadly lacking
A creative dark cloud settles in.

What's the good of writing blind,
When all conclusions are foregone?
How many trees give up their lives
To find the story from within?

Ideas, not so elusive now,
Flirt within the writer's mind.
With pen and paper set the snare,
Trap the Muse and wear her skin.

The story's written and refined,
Once again creation's pawn.

By : C R Ward