That Which Cannot Ever Be Explained

With every now we cite the faithful muse, the one we know is never there, but just as certainly our patroness, our lover for all time, our aged sprite drifting silently along the screaming front and those of us who write, will never let her go. I'll climb the tower of my ignorance. I'll praise the circumstance that brings me there, to curb and rest those wild oars of the mind however aimed out in the passion of a distant call. I'll sing those waves of self reward, of my impetuosity when reason plays the chorus. There again the mind falls short; the intellect must feast upon the small perception of the breath alone. We must throw up our hands. That which saves us is our creativity...as if it were enough. And this poor poet doesn't think it is. Ironic, isn't it? He takes some joy from that. ~