How I hate the passing moments

my missing Muse with no bestowments

lying in a barren field

her eyes shut tight, lips tightly sealed.

Evading me, my patience, wanes

my inspiration muscle strains

She hides between the narrow cracks

a fruitful pen now turned to wax

But who I am to rush her pace

while she attends the marketplace

of bold ideas, the fresh, the new

and delivers them in rendezvous

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