Mistress Muse Where Are You?

When the thought I seek doesn’t come
I sit poised, fingers frozen in mid-type,
awaiting for the words to percolate down
from my brain to my digits in wait, ready to

But when sentences flow without stop
when they pour onto ipad seamlessly
is when there is no thought, only flow
flying letters flipping up the paged screen

The stretch of linguistic limbs of mind
and the barren desert of heart desire
produces no cave gem of the delightful
just a wrenched out, eked out word squirt

Drenched in the sweat of sexless desire
it hurts to turn the cogs and wheels on
to keep the grooves oiled and tea hot
I am no longer the poet I was ever before.

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