when muse lightning strikes
I’ve no choice but to obey its command
as, thru me, it thunders
silent to all but me
to whom it’s always ear-splitting
and earth-shattering in volume
no mere atmospheric
electrical discharge this
what we have here
is a brainstorm amok
w/ Zeusian bolts hurled
–under the influence of poetry–
to&fro hither-thither&yon
thus must I put pen to page
whose ink is more than
a metaphorical surrogate
for my lifesblood
once opened
I am duty-bound by secret oath
to permit this wound
to bleed itself
'til it clots
a process which some
times is mercifully quick
while agonizingly slow
at others
only then when my muse’s
satisfaction had been appeased
–albeit momentarily so–
can I tend to my self-injury
and bandage it so that
the flesh may heal,
however, not too well
in order that some scarring
may remain visible
sometimes I go
w/ little sleep
or none at all
just to ease
my muse’s unrest
such is the nature
of our relationship
that my muse’s needs
eclipse my own
and, as in nature,
so too is my muse
governed by seasons
where flood and drought
are ever in play
but sometimes achieve
an agreeable balance
to avoid binge and famine
as realistic outcomes