Wouldst that inspiration come now
For the purpose of this piece:
The soul that gives the pen on ink
A treasure; fortune; feast.
To write from no inspiring
Is to write without a heart.
For words alone are empty
If they have no higher part.
Whence came the Muse of poetry
That Virgil, Homer knew?
For Calliope’s power
Is inspiring, pure and true.
For while she waits and lingers
Watching other people’s tries
To form a rhyme to last
More than a thousand uttered cries,
She sees one sit and wonder
Of the essences within
And how now best to structure;
How to start? Where to begin…
A million epic tales
That might once have all been writ
Are lost in formless thoughts
For lack of Muse just let them slip.
Yet still I wait. I’m patient.
When will inspiration come?
Yes… I sense it. I am ready.
Now the lyre, let it strum.
