Muse

 She speaks to me in hushed tones

And screams at me aloud-

The voice inside my head

Understanding everything

And nothing all the same.

She sings sonnets of my joy

A dirge of hidden pain.

She is whimsy and a sunset

That flow from me like breath-

She is the tempest that burns within

That my mind can’t lay to rest.

She is the nimble words that flow

From these kept fingertips of mine

Writing such things I do not know-

Where does she find them?

These foreign words of passion

And loss?

Where sleeps the timid beast

I call poetry?

Who lives and dies inside this soul of mine?

I will feel her awakening

When the time is come-

Her crazed, mastery of me

I am overtaken.

And my, what a beautiful devil she can be!

With strong unforgiving blows

She beats such meaning out of me.

So, I will lie in wait here

Until my muse arrives-

A lonely would-be poet

Just trying to survive.

 

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