Oh, when the muse bemused refuses to un-confuse us we lose moments and gain excuses reducing the doozy of unproductive movements.
What a bruise when the dews of inspiration are not infused in our mind
and we're left without clues of divine cues that would have saved us that lost time.
when it comes I succumb to the sweet drum beat, take a backseat to the mumble hum thump of the muse's strummed feat.
a humble glum slump undone by the muse's sweet thrum as the tongue tied bleat from the bumbling numb cheek no longer stumps the dumb stumble of the writer's long grumble.
what's there to say as one exits a daze, de-glazed by amazing views of blazing hues, skewed by inspired perspective midst muddled eclectic roux.
a simple description of inspired revision, depicting conscription to an acquired new vision, hinging on precision of poetic emission. try to relate that great fate with dogged ambition.
Inspiration betoken, is not self descriptive its identity identified by the words left unspoken. silent and speechless, the audience of inspired works listen, wooed by sight of the inspired works glisten.
record and rewrite until the muses munition, ignites in bright light in a brilliant edition.
