My muse lives

My muse lives

Remember, a few days ago,
I was down, sad and depressed,
My sorrow did not cease to grow,
With memories I was obsessed;

I thought she was dead,
Dead as a duck, my muse,
I felt the poetry exit my head,
Leaving a cavity for depression to abuse;

So I brooded over my life,
And the poetry afforded by her,
My mind was working, barely,
My heartbeat, but a murmur;

I stared at the paper,
'twas as blank as my mind,
I thought she'd taken something with her,
It seemed she'd left me blind;

Without some of my faculties,
I was a dodo, not even a crane,
Without my muse I was
A man who'd lost his brain;

They were henious, my actions,
Pitiable and driven by sadness,
I was writing something I didn't quite know,
It seemed I was losing my madness;

I was writing, nay rambling,
Of subjects I felt too strongly about,
And as I started to write about my muse,
Words flowed as water from a sprout;

I completed that poem,
Or so I thought,
But instead of feeling better,
I felt distraught;

Later I realised,
As my mind wondered, 'What gives?'
I was writing, inspired,
Now I know, My muse lives.

(c) 2001, Shaunak Agarkhedkar.
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