The Poet and The Muse

When the Muse declined the Poet's invitation, he was dejected.
"Why did she do that?" he asked
himself but the answer eluded him.
He was sad and he decided to confine himself to the
four walls that sheltered him, until the Muse arrived.
He was hopeful that one day the Muse
would relent and come visit him.
But days turned into weeks and weeks into
months but there was no sign of her arrival.
The Poet's quill knew that the Muse would never come but all it could do was watch the deteriorating Poet suffer in silence.
For even a glance from him was too much to ask for.
All it could do was hope for the Poet to let go
of the Muse and embrace the quill for once.

Then, one day, it happened.
The Poet got up from his chair and picked
up the quill, that was embroiled in cobwebs.
With trembling hands, he put the quill on the paper and
began to write with whatever residue was left of him.
Although he found it excruciatingly painful to start doing again what had once been his greatest pleasure, he didn't stop.
At first, it was just a letter.
And then, a word.
And then, another word.
And then, another word.
Soon, the words kept flowing and in no time,
there was a poem gracing the dusty paper.
Holding the paper in his hands, the Poet
smiled for the first time in a long time.
He couldn't read what he had written for
the tears in his eyes wouldn't let him see it.
When the tears faded and he went
through his words, he felt guilty.
Guilty of trusting the Muse.
"Why did I ever wait for her? Even after all this while, my love for her remains unrequited. Maybe it's time I move on", he said.

What followed was a realization.
"When the curtains fall and I look back
at my life, it'll be one of two things:
1. I'll be left with poems that'll become my legacy
or
2. I'll be left with excuses as to
why the poems never came out.
And I know what I want."

With that, the Poet had discarded the
Muse from his life permanently.
He kept writing poems without,
once, waiting for the Muse.
The Muse did relent and finally paid him
a visit but she was not welcomed.
She apologized to the Poet, trying to mend
ways with him but he told her he didn't need her.
The Poet went on to write a million poems
but an ode to the Muse wasn't one of them.
And when the curtains came calling and his life
flashed in front of his eyes, he died a proud man.
A Proud Poet.

© OkayCkay