The muse is silent.

She sits waiting in some quiet corner
softly draped in silk.

She eludes my eyes as I watch a scarlet flush creep across
her alabaster face.

With a russell of petticoats, she rises.
Turning toward the door, she beckons me.
I am helpless but to follow.

Beyond the door I find nothing but a mirror.
Was she only a reflection of myself?

09/11/2003