what of the muse of her wings that unfurl. How does she walk when the sky she can hail
I am chained to this creature for better or the latter. for she holds keys to my soul and each lock can just dismember. this beast of beauty can sometimes perch my emotions. For her secrets imbue on my mind after that, the heart. with just a whisper, with a start, I find reeling in my mind that there is feeling. and knowledge is kept in my heart. the muse does strike with a dagger from sheath. Yet. its wounds shed not blood and flesh not torn from each sweep. I am lashed to the cliffs of sanity's ocean. where the muse does too sore after walking across my sight laid molten. For I am inspired by this esper of deities. once this task has been lade by the hands of she. I find my own cannot stop scribbling, stained in ink. so should your eyes spy me. If I were in this state, you would know for my language would lay skewed proper, or a curious state. please let me scrawl across hidden doors. for its whats beneath the husks of many that the Muse implores. and I a Harbinger to art and its feat. will scrawl on my fur if paper is does fleet. My task to transpose so the blind can read the painting, and for the deaf to hold tune to melodic pattern in shades of medium.

I, just the Nymph
stepping out through the tree
to reveal to those planted
on earthly heels

I seek to tether
whats real to whats not.
with Quill in hand
I relay my whispering commands

So I just bid you to know
that its is not just art for art's sake that this world exists