The Muse, The Poem, and The Poet

Firery red inspiration like the jinn roaming with us

The Muse cannot be understood but must be listened to

The Poet is but putty

Bending to the will of the energies

The Poem is the Muse's outlet

Its form

Its reality

Green fertile ground

The power held by The Muse equates to the power of gods

Big and little from millennia past

The Poet is but a string

Tethering The Muse to The Poem

Almost useless, a function of transcription really

It is why The Muse is the subject for so many poets

Whispers on soft necks sending hairs into alert

"Write about me. I love you. I am the only one who understands. These words are mine. Let's explore together. Write about how grand I am. How you would die without me. Write about me keeping my love under lock and key, exposing only when you need an extra shot of confidence. I give you these words. They are mine. "

Muses of The Muse

The Poet unable to move forward alone let's the words flow, spill, sputter onto the page

"Is this write?"

The Muse never answers

The Poem never tells

The Poet is left to try again and again

A lifetime