When I have a muse, words fit perfectly;
Finding their places as if by magic,
While airy voices whisper secretly:
Poetry and prose midst verse emphatic.
I labor nonetheless, forging sonnets –
Shaping songs with odd old ends of language;
Bleeding ink on paper. This gift, honest
As it is, oft’ dooms my soul to languish;
Drifting through passionate desperation.
But, by your grace, confidence awakens:
Imagination invents expression,
And desire restores a faith shaken.
Though form arouses creativity,‘Tis thy genius which sparks my artistry.