To the uninspired, the muse becomes
as elusive as the wounded hart,
revealing itself only at inopportune times,
leaving behind just enough of itself
to encourage the chase.
She is the last fleeting dream
before awakening to a grey dawn,
tantalizing the memory by standing
firmly just beyond thought’s grasp and
wisping away just before an outstretched
finger of remembrance can touch it.
The uninspired chase the muse as
the Inspector chases the dragon while
searching for what they perceive to be
the means to a common end;
for one, creation;
the other, destruction;
for both, fulfillment.
A mediocre finale to a
and misspent adult life.
The chase claims many,
too many of the good and potentially great,
not enough of the rest.
It wreaks havoc,
completely, utterly –