Oh Muses, make the tale live for us…
All poets awaken each day to a new world,
an empty page on which to capture their visions.
They enter Eden on the keys of a laptop.
The naming of all things is within their power.
The numinous, the transcendental, the mundane
await the uncertain dance of their fingertips.
They sit, the historians of the present.
In this way, they are gods practicing creation.
In this way, they are Lucifer practicing damnation.
No subject is beyond their purview or attention.
It is a great and honorable undertaking.
It is equally a humbling burden to bear.
It is the best reason to wake up each morning.
The muse sings, and they channels her words.
They delve beneath superficial events
to attempt to make news that will stay news.
In this way, they fall in love with life
over and over and over, again and again:
the only love affair, that never ends.