Loss of Purpose

If I never meet my Muse again that’d be good enough for me.

Because then I’d spend my languid days

Stuffing sorrows down my throat,

And in the remotest chance I could birth a verse,

Well, it’d be the last one for a while.

For what once was green has burned to gold and nothing gold can stay,

Like books you read in middle school

Or the dawn that breaks your swimming head hungover,

Draped to dry out on a back porch swing.

 

But that’s the thing.

 

If I never meet my Muse again then I’ll be stunned to stone.

With trachea choked, I’ll crest the apex of desperation,

Descend and end a mouth with no meaning.

There’s no quench beneath this thirst-cracked earth

Worth dowsing rod divining,

So with little recourse I stand,

Mouth gaped full to the firmament,

Waiting...waiting…

Please.

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