Lost Muse

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, O think! I am a writer, who has lost his muse. A spring, maybe a compassion for spirit, that dwells inside. I will draw for you what I could, and for what I thought I knew, these days of 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, with you, nowhere near here, so I could rescue you. So please 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, a fools tale of evermore. In imagination they lie, for us to write and just decide.
A muse in the mind I say, is twice a find. Legends are told, and battles are fought, over a mysterious muse,“Quoth the Raven”That poor Eleanor was never there.

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