You, my muse...

If my god has clay feet,
you, my muse, have soiled feet.

Just because
I go down on my knees
and with outstretched arms
entreat your disappearing form
to turn around
and look at me just once,
you spurn me.

My writing drags its feet
reshuffles old images
stokes tired metaphors
rehashes borrowed lines.
How can you not see this?
How can you not care?
I was once your favourite ward, remember?

When I have gutted my own words
or pounded them out of shape,
will you then smile
to see this nasty piece of work?
You left me.... while invoking you
I offered not the gallant orchid
but the homely hibiscus?

My god has clay feet
and you, my muse,.. a swollen head.