My Poems Propagate Themselves

My poems propagate themselves stirring ingredients like adjectives and adverbs as I slumber, gloriously out of my mindset I give my muse permission to pay attention for I am not in body. Astral travel is my go-to-dream place Taking no credit, I ease awake often listening to Trixie, my muse whispering the last line of a poem she has apparently been working on several hours before I wake Am I being humble? No. I am giving credit to a part of my brain that does not travel with my soul at night the part that regulates breathing insuring my fleshly continuance This is why I readily give my muse Trixie credit for a great deal of my poetry. Sometimes I read it and I think “Who wrote that?” Then one phrase or one word will click and I know that I know nothing about my creativity or my dream state But I do know that it is much easier to give Trixie credit for I am not one who knows what she is about flying by the seat of my soul most of the time.