muse

That beautiful state of drifting away…
unaware, unconcerned,
with the words that I say.
The feeling of wonder,
of beauty and grace,
as my spirit returns,
to that magical place.

Could I fight at it,
claw at it,
grasp it and flee?
I suppose that I could.
But then what would they be?

A bird that is caged,
never sings,
quite as sweet.
As one that flies aimlessly,
blessed and free.

If the words on the page,
darkling bold on stark white,
somehow fail to engage,
or the magic’s not right,
if they’re tattered and faded,
and bristling with fright,
it was I  who invaded,
and locked them up tight.