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​Cruel, her sense of humor
in my hour of need.
The words she gifts me
scattered about my mind
like a pile of autumn leaves.

Blown about by Chaos 
then captured by the wind,
just as they begin to settle,
a grasp I mange to nettle,
they are lifted pell-mell again.

Foolishly I chase them,
flashing in and out of shadow and light.
My Muse, a ceaseless tease,
dangling rhythms I would seize,
dancing beyond my fingertips
much to her delight.

With her I always must wrestle,
at times she bests me with ease.
At other times I pin the words down,
her inspirations are often found,
in my surrender to her whimsies.
~
M. Zane McClellan
~
Copyright © 2016
All rights reserved

The DailyCruel, her sense of humor
in my hour of need.
The words she gifts me
scattered about my mind
like a pile of autumn leaves.

Blown about by Chaos 
then captured by the wind,
just as they begin to settle,
a grasp I mange to nettle,
they are lifted pell-mell again.

Foolishly I chase them,
flashing in and out of shadow and light.
My Muse, a ceaseless tease,
dangling rhythms I would seize,
dancing beyond my fingertips
much to her delight.

With her I always must wrestle,
at times she bests me with ease.
At other times I pin the words down,
her inspirations are often found,
in my surrender to her whimsies.
~
M. Zane McClellan
~
Copyright © 2016
All rights reserved

The Daily Post Prompt: Muse

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