My Private Muse
My muse, my inspiration, my whimsical flier,
my hidden gem, my knighted rider,
she with a poem in her bewitching heart
at home in her secret hideaway in the dark,
who keeps heaven’s language locked up inside
to give to me on her midnight ride,
who swirls about with the winds from up high
and then swoops down to somewhere nigh,
somewhere for me to find, somewhere I know not,
somewhere that she chose to be her landing spot,
my private muse who loves to tease,
who hovers above my mind, then gets up and leaves,
and laughs as she goes home to the poet gods
then rides back down on the lightning rods.
If I could see her flying above the mountain crest,
I could catch her and sit her down at my desk.
I could write the most beautiful poem ever written.
I could feel the words from my heart so smitten.
I could rise above and live in her palace.
I could taste her wine and drink from her glass.
I could become intoxicated and write about it.
I could speak the language of her spirit.
I could make her all mine to stay forever,
to give me words that make my body quiver.
I could, I could, I could, I could.
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