The muse is the sound of the drums,
the reflection of the paintings on the walls,
the monotones of the sculptures on the tables.
The muse is the art that screams in hushed voices
around the podium of expressions,
the voice of the rehearsing wordsmith,
the blank sheets, paper balls, and dripping pens.
The muse is the narrative pictures hanging below the roof,
the racing faces of told and untold stories,
compressed memories trapped on canvases.
The muse is the quiet of the telling streets,
the deliberating greenery of the valley,
the affectionate caresses of the leaves,
and the whispers of words through expanding stomata.
The muse is the thought never expressed,
the rioting words never written,
the stifled idea never manifested.
The muse is the fullness of them all,
in constant motion like an ocean
whose depths never ends and whose content never dries.
Wonderful! I love the variations on defining the muse, how well detailed each of these is, creating its own unique image with some concrete language, but also remaining abstract enough in each conception to allow the reader to develop their own sense of the muse. “art that screams in hushed voices” and “the racing faces of told and untold stories” are a couple of my favorite lines for the unique way you have used descriptions. This would be a great one to submit to the anthology!