We Artists would trade sanity for a happy Muse.
Yet, glad or sad, clouds or rain…I would not, Muse-abuse.
When she whispers, I fly to her…almost every time.
I only shy away from her when her light is lime.
She plants a kiss of insight upon my furrowed brow.
I rush to my studio…record what she’s said now.
Me, she visits more than once on solitary days.
I’ve forgotten what she says before I’ve pen & page.
Sat there sore in self-pity with blank page & blank mind.
Soon ignited, or relieved, by what she’s left to find.
L.B.Stowe 