Muse A.W.O.L

Your prognosis isn’t good son,
Sorry you bought that new pen.
You see when all is said and done
It’s unlikely you’ll see your muse again.

My pincer like fingers grip the chair,
As I grind my teeth like mill wheels.
My look turns into a  glassy stare,
And I realise that nothing will be the same again,

Ever.

Or until the next poem ?