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The Muse
 

The phoenix from the fire doth rise
with burning passion, flashing eyes
But amidst tears, pain and blues
Quietly appears the muse.

Beckoned by heavy shoulders bowed
He replaces sorrows darkened shroud
whispering secrets low; around my throat
he fastens familiar creators cloak.

Resplendant then in shades of blue
I may approach the problem new
Whate'r I face, transformed can be
The rhythm of verse shall set me free.

From time I rise til back to bed
this mystery is weaving in my head
Walking, talking, working, all the time
secretly turning mundane to rythme.

Yet if unrecorded alas the cost
the words cascade and much is lost
So where e'r I go, I'm waiting then
for in my pocket, Iv'e paper and pen!

Anji Alexander 21/01/2004