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.
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