And what exactly do I do?

I’ve played the game to it's extent

And know the plays to their purest form,

But now I am left defenseless,

Or offense-less in this case.

There is no deception,

Nor derivatives of such.

Only her.

She may be a muse,

That I don't know,

But either way she is beautiful in her splendor.

But how to capture such splendor,

And keep it for myself?

Should I write her a song?

One that I dare not sing

In fear of scaring her away?

Or paint her a picture?

One that I dare not show

In fear of my own skills,

Or lack there of.

Maybe a poem would do it?

But surely pulling an angel from heaven is not so easy,

if it was, she would be mine.

But, I suppose prose will have to do,

Or else I make a fool of myself,

And any other talents she once thought I held.

If it does not work,

I will simply keep writing,

Hoping one style will be the caging of the dove,

A selfish task in nature,

But one well worth the endeavor.

Either way,

This is to the muse.

Those that give the artist their life blood

In exchange for less than nothing.

Thank you for your beauty

A quality so under appreciated by some,

And very much so by me.