YOUR MUSE

I don’t forget,

You once admit,
Your pen once confess,

That I am your muse,

 I am the spirit,

 Of your art,

I am the origin

Of your fountain.

To the pleasure of that spirit,

To the pride of that sprout,

Now your art grows to be a wonder,

That thin flow becomes a river.

Today, enchanted by that achievement,

You neglect that spirit, forget that sprout,

Obvious, gratefulness is a great art,
Not many can actually have that.

Someone truthfully confessed somewhere,

Awesomely narrated on a piece of paper,

That the gush of a fall never retreats,

A proudly soul never regrets.  

But that spirit will always clap with the audience,

And will forget to remember your promises.