Thinking about my muse I think of a mystical fairy garden where she sleeps under a flower.  All I have to do is gently lean down and lift the petals off of her ashen pink skin so the sun wakes her up.  She never used to wake easily, but with time it has become easier and rouse her from her stupor.  She loves to wake up on her own, and if I let her, she could sleep for years if only nothing would disturb her.  Sleep is were she finds the magic of  rejuvenation and the all of her mystics secrets.  She runs if treated abruptly so she must be approached with a gentle excitement as to not scare her.  Our relationship is symbiotic and electric, I really miss her almost desperately when she disappears.

Now I think of her that way, when I first started my poetry experience I chased her, cursed her, and even tried to forget she existed at times. Strange how my relationship with her has changed like that.


She left me abandoned once again, and I predicted it this time;

I let her go this time, salvaging my energy for that poem or that amazing idea;

That always follows a creative hiatus.

I found her in a cave this time, under a blanket of moss;

Now she is peaking around all of my corners;

No misfortune it took, the pressure a welcome, long awaited invitation.

I love that she whispers words that float around in my soul;

Making my dreams electric, as she sings her mesmerizing lullaby.

Oh, thank-you my gracious muse for giving me a voice, with no sound;

She whispers and continues convince me too surrender to she charms.

Next time I will not let her sleep so long, I will keep my paper;

I have my pen, an invitation she finds impossible to refuse.




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