The other day
I thought about a statue of a muse,
I had seen once in Killarney.
I think she was in front of a train station or a mall.
The statue, a symbol of creativity, seemed out of place
In her present surroundings.
*
Her indifferent eyes gazed upon three plaques,
Each with the name of a famous local poet.
The writers gladly sacrificed their lives for a moment or two of her divine inspiration.
The poets now, have all but been forgotten.
The statue now, is covered with pigeon droppings.
*
I think of the muse that once heightened my world,
So that even a pebble on a broken road,
Would sing to me of hidden wonders in each miraculous moment.
*
I think of the muse who left me
For a brighter star.
(Because that is what muses do.)
*
And now a pebble
Is just another pebble.
And a leaf is just a leaf.
And all my words have devolved
Into random letters,
In downwarding spirals
Which have long ago lost their meaning.