Who is this Muse of which I speak,
That enters my thoughts at will?
She is the one that forms the verse
And words that make me feel.

Sometimes like a big brass band
She sounds within my head.
Other times I must stand still and listen
When she whispers it instead.

Sometimes She speaks in words
Or views,
Or scents,
Other times she hides from me.

I, the writer, have but no choice
To wait,
Pen ready,
Until told what words shall be.

I watch the world and tales untold
Dancing and taunting before me.
But not until Her music plays aloud
Can I hear the song of the story.

I pray she’ll always stay with me.
And always try to make her smile.
For she is the one worth writing for;
The one that gives my form, its style.