Waiting For My Muse

Gentle is the breeze that finds its way Into my window as it rattles the blinds Ever so softly like delicate castanets, Lulling me into a peaceful state of mind. Oh, muse, oh muse, come to me now With graceful whispering reveal Your literary secrets I humbly implore, For such would my ailing ego heal. How I long for the words to flow sweetly Like honey from a prosperous hive, For I’ve desperate need of ideas you see As a poet, on such things I thrive. Caress me with your stimulating touch That in past, has brought me such pleasure And further yet for I am anxious to receive Your eloquent gifts with good measure. I plead you would speak as in ages before That inviolable language of the Poets of yore, Impart to me I beseech such gifts as you will As fingers are restless and scarcely remain still. Gentle is the breeze that finds its way Into my window as it rattles the blinds Ever so softly like delicate castanets, Lulling me into a peaceful state of mind.