When Angels Come to Poets

Do angels come to poets?
Have they ever been?
Yes. My muse is with me always.
Heard but never seen.

Lyrics whispered in my ear.
Songs at their birth.
Enough time given to
write down the words.
Always with me from
morning till night.

Should I accept the poem as my own?
Do I search for someone else to
write the poem down?
My imagination runs riot.

I don’t construct.
My poem forms itself.
Spectator not participant in the process.
Like song and air flowing through the body of a singer.
Pushed and moved by the current of
extraneous forces but
not an entity in itself.

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