Soft Muse of Old

Sit next to me,
soft muse of old,
your voice is ever-young.

Warm my frosted
fingers, without catch for
so, so long,
wriggling through
all the world’s
word-spun ether,
in search for worthiness –
worthiness that inspires
ink to spill.

Yesterday’s parchment
peel dry in your absence,
and today’s crumble
in thirst.

Come dip
your genteel feet into
those black pools
and dance upon the sheets-

Until the crusty papyrus
is washed,
until upon it, life itself unfolds
unfettering-

Sit next to me,
soft muse of old,
and be so ever-young.

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