A Muse

Musing is music,
I typed by accident, meaning
to suggest instead that makeup
was amusing. What a funny
coincidence, I thought to nobody,
seizing upon it as the idea
of the moment, the likelihood
of such accidents amounting
to little in my frenzy to find
something to act as my
muse. The mind turns
strange corners in its desire
not to turn coroner, corroding
in its prison; instead it rotates,
flipping on its fulcrum,
dancing in the light, radiating
its own brilliance, ebullient
and ecstatic at the present
presented by the Cartesian challenge
of proving its existence.