My muse burns with a cold fury,
a frosted fire that flames in the night
fast as death and slow as time.
I sit and wait, hoping I’ll find
the right words to fill this rhyme.

So, I seek soft speakers who feel as I,
the ones who use poetry
to tell beautiful truth filled lies.

Then once I have devoured their vowels,
once I have sipped and savored
their constant consonants
briskly reading through
the stuff they share with me and you,
I let my mind do what it must do.
I rest, absorb, learn, and get ready to use,
the sweet words of my wonderful muses.