Inspiration at Point Blank

Sometimes I feel as though I am a slave
to a mad muse misfiring synapses
from the barrel of a gun; her shaky
finger on the trigger, locked and loaded,
fae and untamed as the moon, she shoots words
and images point blank into my mind.

Inspiration, oh so random, oh so
unreliable, unpredictable.
She cares not for the hour, or if I am
soundly sleeping and will not hesitate
to enter my dreams like a visitor
who was never asked to cross the threshold.


^{(I would be utterly lost without her.)}