I wonder if there’s a point where the flow of creativity stops.
Does the muse just decide she’s done singing,
And the essence of creation halts its stream for good?
Will there be no more nuance or spiritualism in word?
An eternal absence of song, music, dance?
I think that would be a very quiet world.
One of boredom, apathy and sorrow.
What would raise the hopes of the fallen?
Push away the dreaded darkness?
I pray that day never comes,
Because for all the days i yell curses at that fickle muse,
The world would be cold without her.