We praise the Muse who calls us to hide in plain site, like Poe's lost letter.
We praise the Muse who flips the card picturing the Pale Rider.
We praise the Muse who kisses our pencil.
We praise the Muse who sleeps beside our words.
We praise the Muse who leads us to our subterranean river.
The Muse may treat us like a one-night stand, yet we praise her.
The Muse may sell our dreams with an ice cream jingle, yet we praise her.
The Muse may bind our hearts with adamantine chains, yet we praise her.
The Muse may be as fleeting as the wind, as faithful as a cat,
yet we praise her.
The Muse has a snake twining up her arm.
We praise her.
The Muse dances naked in our living room.
We praise her.
The Muse drinks our fantasies.
We praise her.
The Muse demands, she does not deign to tempt.
We praise her.
I bring my lonely army of empty words,
I bring my blank calendar pages,
I bring my half-filled notebooks,
I bring my darkening voice,
I bring my first words and my last,
I bring them all to the altar of the muse.
This started as a comment in response to this post by the lovely Ms. Candide. These words are for you, Sam.
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