Would you be my muse?

My Polyhymnia of sacred poetry?

My Calliope of epic words cascading?

My Erato with words of love?

Poetic practice needs it's words to be told
and untold stories are not fair.
I search my words from the atmosphere so serene -
from your face, from your eyes, from your mind.
Without my poetry I'm empty, dead within
in my homeless body and clearly
the need of inspiration is pouring all the time.

Raining over me,
so I'll ask again.

Dance with me for a while?