"Write me a poem,"
suggests my Muse.
"Tell me a story,"
he demands.
Today he wears
the wondrous robes
The Emperor threw aside
for clothes.
"Tell me a story,"
says my Muse,
"of the mists of Gethran
or the teddy-bear wars
or anything that comes
to mind."
"Sing a song of sorrow,"
he suggests, smiling.
"I did that already,"
I reply.
A brown lock of tousled hair
falls over his eye.
"Go to sleep, little boy.
It's time for bed."
"Only if you tell me
why the Krystors are dead."
"But they aren't,"
I protest.
"I've told you before."
"I know that," he smiles.
"Now tell me more."
"No! Go to bed,
you childish brat.
Why on earth would I
tell you that?"
"Because you promised,"
he said. "And, I can't sleep."
Promises I always keep.
You've caught me, you beast,
you poisonous pest!
In all the world,
I love you best.
And such a shame,
you know it's true
I would denounce
the world for you.
Or fetch the moon
And scarlet sky,
If such a thing
has caught your eye.
So I'll tell you stories
All night long
'Til Gethran's silver moons
Have gone.
'Til the sun rises,
hot and high
I'll tell you why;
I'll tell you why
You are my Muse,
Is that not true?
You are my Muse,
And I love you.
(Pardon the poet
If she rambles
That's how they said
To do it.
From what I see,
There's nothing to it.)
(This is work,
giggles my Muse.
Remember that.)
Her muse knelt down in the grey light of dawn
"finish this,"
he commanded impetuously.
"It is not finished?"
"Read it,"
he said gently.
"Only you and I will know.
Only we two will know
what secrets you held back.
Is it finished?"
She sighed and met his dawn-grey eyes.
"I will finish it."