There's no reason why, there's no on, or off, switch.
There's no knowing how a muse causes a twitch.
The heart tell the mind. "This you should tell."
The mind tells the fingers. "Just ring on this bell."
To place words in rhyme, that is always the aim.
Though oft-times it comes out all piddling and lame.
The thought at the back of each rhyming couplet,
Is the heart of the writer, opened wide, in the net.
The writer is nought without his or her muse.
The fingers alone? they have nothing to use.
Nought to those digits, alone in the night.
The heart is the poet; the organ of light.
A muse is a special, a one-off, the best.
The softening up of the poets hearts rest.
The lever who opens a poets mind-set.
Is an emotional focus, without any let.
So make what you will of this, my love, my muse.
For each of the times when I'm all of a bruise,
In all ways you give such a balm to each part,
The strength of you, muse, is the love of your heart.
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