Maybe I’m not the muse.
Maybe I’m the spark to the fuse, the ignite
To a flare or maybe I’m even the signal.
But I don’t think I’m the muse.
A muse stays in place. She is eye candy.
Something to copy. Something to steal.
Her beauty, of course so tantalizing, yet
She is still. She is very, very quiet.
I am the cause before the action.
The quiet & the storm.
I am rebirth and death all in one, because I
Hold the power of creation…
To be his muse, is to be less than myself.
Because I am no ones anything.
I am my everything.
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