At the end of the day
He was awe mused up
Know longer able
Too take it
Sow well
This poem was written amidst a streak of short poems when the muse struck. Sometimes the muse needs to be addressed directly as a subject. The glorious work as a scribe to a muse is only work in as much as handing off the words become incarnate into human language requires time and some small sacrifice of an alternative activity, say, sleep. The muse’s musings are worthy of a voice, and even sometimes beyond a voice in my head. May you on occasion find yourself in good service to a muse.
