You who stirred the words into my soul, Brought them to life, animated them With allegory and wit. As if the Nine Muses had sung to my ear, And Calliope herself had donned me With the poems she'd once writ.
Or Sappho of ******, among secretive violets, Absorbed by the lyre, she pens to revive it; Not the song, or the tune, But the calm way the song moved The violets across the field- This inspiration, she could wield.
Don't you see now, how it's not poetry the poet will choose? For every poem the poet pens one shall require an equal Muse.
Calliope is one of the eight Greek muses. She is the muse of epic poetry.
with ebony feathers being ruffled with the wind, he perched on his little ledge, a morning routine. silently, observing moments of the day sitting unnoticed to the beings crossing below. with their busy tones and headphones, their feet making quick steps, never stopping to think,
do they enjoy missing moments like these? as he pitied the humans who never even noticed the little shadows leading, dancing at their feet and the disappearance of the crow, leaving only three tracks on the wall.
inspired by the mythological creature I encountered in a story, short and sweet to the ears.