The mighty muse
exists on a higher plain
above and beyond all
that transpires below.
Peripatetic puppeteer
pulling the strings,
choreographing the dance.
Characters are but
intricate marionettes
swirling and acting out
the whims or fancies
or mechanizations
of the plotting manipulator above.

The lowly writer
sitting hunched and bent,
fingers a fevered blur
over the keyboard,
is but the conduit:
muse to mind
to digits. Servant.
For we but serve
what our muse dishes out.
Feed on their brilliance,
swimming or flailing
in their wake
just keeping our head
above water lest we not
drown
in words.