Muse

She's the poet
without a name,
the dancer
without a face,
the musician
without a voice.

She brushes past you
like a flight of fancy,
where a small piece of her
genius
flutters to the ground.
You pick it up,
wondering
who it belonged to.
Then, tucked away in your pocket,
you save it
in case it's owner
comes to reclaim it.

She never will.

She left it on purpose, you see.
She left it for you.

She's the author
of her namesake,
the butterfly
with the unmistakable wings
the painter
with the magic
at her fingertips.

She is
what all of us
hope, cry, and beg to be.

She is a dream
of creativity.