I ponder these fairy tales and fireside stories,
Of love won and lost and adventures in anguish,
That are told throughout time.
It seems strange,
That I don’t know where my Juliet has gone,
Or, where my maiden lies.
Somewhat a mystery I think,
That I am a writer,
Who has lost his muse.
I have a compassion for spirit,
That dwells inside.
I will draw for you what I can,
And for what I thought I knew,
Cause in the end, I’m searching to find,
The fairy tale land,
Just to find you.
The story is told,
And the dragon has been slain,
And you are nowhere near here,
So I could rescue you.
So spin me a yarn of gold,
And I’ll save it now, and forever more.
But, all that’s left here now,
Is the story about being lost for you.
These stories we tell,
Are a fools tale of nevermore.
In imagination they lie,
For us to write and just decide.
A muse in the mind I say,
Is twice a find, for legends are told,
And battles are fought, over a mysterious muse,
“Quoth the Raven”
That poor Eleanor was never quite there.