My Muse

My muse visits me when I am deprived of practice, when I have no words. She visits me when I want to create and there seems to be nothing I can make. She visits me as the sun goes down and the thoughts come gushing from my mouth like bits of froth. These thoughts, they have no form, no shape, no backing. They spin from my tongue without being explained or explicable. They spin ’round my head angrily and accusitorily, mocking me for the time I’ve forgotten to write, the words I’ve forgotten to say, and the emotions on which I’ve forgotten to elaborate. They spin around me, dress me in my confusion, and cloak me with disappointment. I find myself being berated by the noiselessness that should be sound. And so, slowly I grapple with the muse who taunts me with her beauty, as the attempts I make to appease her shrivel so poorly and fall like dust from my tongue.

Always,
Afton