There is a bittersweet voice that calls
it chants, torments and it enthralls
the poet in us all.
Caught in an ever growing, consuming flame
at times like these it becomes a game
to see how far I'll fall.
Yet still the muse must be satisfied and fed.
She captures freewill and saturates the head
with horrid screams.
At times she appears gently a subtle nudge
Sometimes she comes and proceeds to trudge
across my restless dreams.
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