Finding my muse

She would strike her match and watch it burn, just long enough to ensure the flame would last. The wonder of it still held her captive as she considered an advancement as such should. The taming of fire was right up there with the invention of the wheel or the first harvest of grain and if one was to forget such things, she thought, one might slip away into the mindset of the granted. Purposefully this flame was held close to the dark end of an ignescent, which caught quite quickly in a shout of light. Though extinguished in its height, none the longest of flames, it still was not without impact, nor without meaning. Curls of music sang in the air, telling stories in 3D picture shows. It would cling to your cloths and swirl in your nostrils. Sweet notes of cinnamon, cedar and grey powdered ash.

Thus began a writer’s ritual, of sorts, to appease a muse. Mischievous muse makes madness of me like peanut butter stuck to roof tops. (Mouths of course) And still no whispers appeared.