Another Unscarred Stone in a Field of Shadows

tombstone-2

I don’t miss you, muse, even though
I know you never really existed
in the first place. I choose not
to believe you were a someone
or something a guy like me writes at,
a silhouette to make round and warm,
or even a target to write poetry upon,
like an old-time stonecutter would
carve on a gravestone. You know,
something permanent in a place
that by its existence represents
our itinerant status in this world.
No, I don’t miss the thought of
ethereal you peering over my
literal shoulder, hmmphing a humph,
tsking a tsk, or sighing an all-out sigh
upon the words I wrote. I’ve forgotten
so many of those words, but never
your approach to reproach. So
it’s a good thing I never believed
in you, otherwise I’d miss your warm
respiration bringing sharp inspiration
and life where before was only
another unscarred stone in a field
of shadows.

Catching up on my poem-a-day quest during National Poetry Month.  Here’s my stab at Number 3.

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