Her beauty blinds like sunbeams
Her moonlight mannerisms mysterious
Flowers a pollenous soul
Awaiting the honeybee
Like a cup of ink for quill.
I’ve been waiting for a new muse to come along for nearly a year and a half now, perhaps longer. Everything I’ve written in that time is more our less rubbish, but rubbish none the less. But I did learn late last night that I lacked a muse. I never chased women nor hunted them for love out lust. I never found that enjoyable. But I often spoke with and to them as if I’d wanted something else. That strange mutual feeling of elation when you find someone with a spark, peaking intrigue and then a hunger that comes not from the guy but the heart. I imagine it’s not much different than when a lion stalks it’s prey. Minus the physical pounce and maul. Well, sometimes. But a peaking intrigue is only elevated more than usual and will deflate. …nearly 18 months and no good hunt. A beast could die in these circumstances. All patrons of the arts are essentially beasts like the rest of humanity in this safari, but an artist has this sort of fluid beastly eloquence that doesn’t feed on carrion, but on the tour guides themselves.
This is becoming a rant and is leaving a bad taste in my mouth. I gotta find a muse before I starve to death.