They call out to the muse, Asking her For a life source, The source Of which all that has unravelled Can be made sense of again. To be wrapped neatly, only to be unwrapped again. Asking her consent, To find the answers Which, in time Unveil themselves to be the questions, That continue to live on the tip of your tongue. She looks up, Eyes draped in thick lashes, As if to hide, As if to reveal, As if to locate the source. “There are no answers here,” Says the Muse. and her voice echoes through the four seasons And you wake up New years day. New moon. Same you, Wholly deprived. Every bit as Wonderful As I remember you to be. (As I made you up inside My head) Same questions. But the Source — The curiosity, (The Life Source) Runs dry into the new year.