Losing the Muse

When the final pinion’s

flown, of what will minstrels

scribble? Huddled beneath the

last arboreal, not a single

leaf to rake, no water left

to water. Roots like bloodless

veins.

 

When no one’s plunged

in love, where will be the

verse of veneration? We’ll

crave forlorn clichés.

 

Where are poems of nectar

after the drone of bees

are stilled? The keeling

strophe that’s void of

any blossom?

We should’ve been

swaddling weeds—

they were flowers &

we failed to see it.

 

The stars are

snuffed by smoke.

The moon a bloomless

tomb. None to croon

its craters can allure.

Its scars are

our redemption. It took a

jagged pounding

in our place. Nothing speaks of

grace like sacrifice.

 

The sun will scorch

to cinders. Erasing kernels

snubbed as chaff. But there’s no

more quills to scrawl it—

remember? Digested in the

embers. Pens that gulls

bestowed; we couldn’t be

bothered to thank them.

Pests upon the beach.

 

The lingering nests

have toppled and

the eggs lapped up by flies.

Theirs are the only

wings that horrid

morning.

 

They’ve licked the dung of

dogs, then darted to our

salads while we’re dining.

Only bards can sense

such splendour. Stung with

so much sage that

even whiskey can’t assuage

its scalding truth.

 

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

July 13, 2026

photo: Tima Miroshnichenko