Un-mused

My muse has gone on holiday:
come to think of it
she has been away
now for quite a bit.

Perhaps she's just a fantasy,
made up to excuse
my poor poesy,
a ruse for delay.

Why do I need to be inspired
by a muse at all?
When I hit the wall
or become too tired.

The need for beauty is quite clear,
but a pretty face,
or goddess of grace,
need not charm my ear.

Surely it is just laziness:
or modest talent
that fails to impress,
when you are absent.

But even allowing for that,
the verses seem flat,
uninteresting,
words refuse to sing.

Dear muse, return without delay.
I'll do anything,
if you'll sing again.
Please come out to play.