Prose Poem: My Muse Comforts Me

Authorial dysfunction is normal in a writer of a certain age

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My Muse is a spirited creature
and a fair delight
a white witch
of concept and conception
She floats, invisible
above the empty page
and whispers
“Fill me, lover, fill me!”

And I do.

With words and more words
some are tolerably clever
others are desperate, frantic, things
begging to be held and reassured
like the writer himself.

But my Muse
greets each line
with perfect, unconditional joy
“My sweetheart, my beloved,”
She says
“You are the artist and the art
I will always come for you”
She moans softly
as if in Her ecstasy
mere flattery, perhaps
but I prefer to believe.

My Muse is a deceiving bitch
late nights when the cursor blinks
on an empty screen
mocking…