The words of the elders keep passing through songs,

They remind us of days that were lived and are gone.
They may change in their rhythm but keep the same tone:
The death of a hero, the birth of a son...

And here I am now with no ink and no pen,
Nor a pencilor coal chunk, Just a keyboard in hand.
Though the muse of the forefathers whispers inside
It craves recognition, a body to bind.

A muse with no song, like a bodiless soul
It may drift through the darkness, just yearning a goal.
Floating from hither to yon as it may,
Leaving behind but complete disarray.

Some call it "magic, "faith" or "desire".
To call it "perfection" will make me a liar.
How I envy the ones that will never acquire
A close interaction with this mystic power.

Like many before me and many to be
I too have a bond with this strange energy.
But it comes with no notion of a visage or other,
Mocks my ideas and feeding my wonder

But lo! My good readers it's time to confess,
Because up until now this was only a test,
To see if this word-made cadaver is ready
To put this abominable muse to a rest.

And now that I'm free of its soul-searing claws,
When a lyrical rope tightens fast on its jaws,
I can send it back drifting and soften my rage
...For I never wrote down there's no key to this cage