Muse-ical Madness

The pages are empty,

and yet...

they still taunt me

with invisible words.

Ether's smile shapes

silhouettes, fleeting...

greeting every

gasp of inspiration.

Elation?

Each creation explodes

expectation far past

lazy days wounded

with empty

wells of waiting.

Ink me up baby.

No time for down

trod dilatory dandies,

whining tearful

over lagging lust

for verse.

We curse. Then,

with truss and tendril

bend will and word to

finest fill of parchment

waiting.

Or pass to madness trying.