Fog Over Muse

I sit at my seat, contemplating
The inspiration I need is futile
So dull, lifeless
Like the sea of the ocean, drained
Or a bird plucked of its feathers
My muse, a mess.

The sun shines a mahogany shadow
The dark walls dull the gleam
My large, forever lost sunglasses
Cover not just my eyes
But my ears and nose
They are made of big wire.

A funny story, it really is
My sunnies always seem to be mislaid
They stray near my cars ashtray
Or sometime end in the park
On one of those black seats
The one with the painted shark.

I shake my perspiring head
Back on the task at hand,
Nothing to neither write nor see to draw
So I laugh at that seat, jet black and shadow
Near the garden of lively flowers
And the grassy forest meadow.

Ah what memoirs I have of that!
Sitting and watching with my sunnies on
And a hat, the color of the sand at night
A grayish, orange color with small
Grains of particles children have left
Ah, my beauty hat, so squashy yet tall!

I growl at the paper, forever with no ink
Maybe if I could have a dancing pen
It shall waltz across the sheet and scribble words
Or maybe a drawing, an alternative picture
I could focus the parts that are of something
And then use colors for a painted mixture.

“Tut, tut, you silly little boy.”
I must be insane, a pen does not dance
But it talks to me with its lid as a mouth
I gape at it, and wonder why…?
“No, you have not lost your mind
Odd boy, give your brain a try!”

He hopped from the table
I could see why he was a red pen
Fire for the passion and,
For his anger, cholerically bent
My ears prickled at his words
By his words- what was meant?

“Your thoughts, incoherent
But string them together into art
There’s the muse, the life you live.”
The pen stopped talking
Poised in my hand, I grinned
But only when I stopped gawking.

But really, I had a pen that talked!
He has lips and eyes and ears that pierced
And his voice was deep and cranky
I thought the inanimate was dead
Wrongness was I
But what on earth was said?!