Excellent

Where does the muse really reside?

Looking in all the wrong places.

by DALLAS01

Unfolding in mind's unkempt pleats His tempo lost in wrinkled beats, Sound's rhythm teeters on the brink As echoes drown in dribbled ink. The muse that drove the poet's soul Has parked her bus short of his goal, Beside himself, he bows his head And ponders:  is his talent dead? On bended knee, he opts to pray As visions, locked in yesterday, Unfurl inside his muted brain To flag the faith, he must regain. And as that scene now reappears Alleviating doubts and fear, He opens self and delves inside Till he and muse are unified.