that night when words were whispering
and the room was quiet and stark
the thought in fearless beguile
mounted the empty page

like muses from the ages
it clasped the trembling hand
and in a fondled embrace
penned the painted picture down

courage sprung from syllables
from impressions old as time
and in that blessed time span
many a poem was conceived

i enthuse - my existence
resembles not an illusion
nor a sheer waste of ink
but rather a portrait
or a spirited work of art