Hand hovering above the page
A strong grip on a pencil
The poet waits for her muse
To open the doors of daydreams
They have been closed down for so long
She barely dares to hope
But a poet whose muse is gone
Is left all broken and broke
And so she looks anxiously at the page
Realising some words appeared
Words she doesn’t remember writing
But words written with her own tears
With relief the poet smiles
Her muse has come back again
To share with her the wonders
Of fae and trees and ocean
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