See Sharp, A's Very Flat Poem by Paul Brookes

The Muse is sharpening quills intent on playing darts,
there's a wicked glint, diamond sharp, like her molten eyes.
cruelly baiting her hook, she never let's go.

even you she says poor a poet as you are
sometimes needs me.
so let the hunt begin
giving me a head start of sixty seconds
she pursues me in my dreams.

the Muse is sharpening her nails
intent on scratching the perfect images we think we have made
smooth as lacquer work, obsidian black.
showing us our imperfections
toppling our icons to the self.

job done she leaves to torture some other,
leaving nothing but shredded paper in her wake.