The embers slip from red to orange
the ash falls grey;
forked fire once leaping,
now only a mental Polaroid.

Has it gone "Dodo?"
Retired and become no more?
The violent transforming process that is inspiration,
slowly draining into the dark, swallowed by the wind.

No heat, no fuel, no longer.
Where is the tender that stoked the fire?
Where is the match that reignites the powerful flame?
Where have you gone, oh Muse, now that the passion has escaped the ink?

~ pondering jeff (grey thursday in may)