And he said
“Now that she is my muse
What shall I do?”

You write for her
You give her your every effort
You show her that she is worthy
of so much more than you can give
(and she is worthy of more than she gets)

And you write for her
You offer your thoughts in the form of words
You offer every echo in the dark chambers of your heart
You offer all this with no expectation of reward

If you do that
Then she is your muse
And you are her poet

How can it be otherwise?

Quixotic as ever

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