does she come when we call? …not at all.

I attempt to lamely march with the legions of poets & artists

throughout a history of embattled passions, who have taught

us one steadfast truth: suffer for art, or find another playground.

we are writers, we are painters, and we feed like lambs at the teats of the apathetic mother who holds us in thrall, the muse who nurtures us with the sweetness of wise & romantic arias today, and tomorrow destroys us with the slings & arrows that the Bard of Avon warned us about.

how long have I sat, while she laughs at my tears, at my blank paper and my worthless pen? drunk on inspirational wine, I stumble from the writing table, scorned by the words I worship,

lost in allegories.