Silent Muse

Over paper my pen is poised,
Windows closed, there is no noise.
All is quiet, gone is the wife
I'm ready to compose a tale of life.
The light is right, the cat is near.
Shall my story tell joy or fear?
Nibs in the desk, ink in the well
Will I write of heaven or hell?
All is ready but I am confused-
I seem to have a Silent Muse.
The paper is blank, taunting me;
Will my tale ever be?
I scratch my head, it is no use
Writing without my, now, Silent Muse.
Where oh where could she ever be hiding-
Is she out drinking or butterfly riding?
Doesn't she know I have to tell a story?
Without her there'll be no metaphors or allegory.
Excuse me, please, I must go now
Without a story for which to take a bow.
There's someone to find, possibly her head to bruise.
I have to drag her back, my fickle, fickle Silent Muse.