Erratic

Sometimes words pour out from random corners,
Colliding and merging, or morphing and searing,
They fly faster than I can talk,
Or sometimes even think,
And without a neuron stretched,
The page fills up with verse.

And yet there are times when
The sheet is empty just like my head,
As if letters have switched off inside my brain,
Staring at the screen of white
I grope in the dark for the elusive phrase
To give passing thoughts a semblance of grace.

These modes come in, go out,
Come in without warning,
Like dots and dashes of a obfuscated Morse code.
I wonder which state I am in now,
When at midnight, the world sleeps,
And I look for my muse,
Tiptoeing lest my footsteps warn it of me.

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