Within the raven-black Walls of my mind, Wanders, Willfully lost or hopelessly found, a Woman, clad in White-fringed lace, Whose name is Inspiration

Widow of my imagination, you Weave your intricate Web around each of my Wavering poetic thoughts. Worthless and frigid, i feel as Winter sets inside my head; Woodenly, my empty fingers Wither under the cold indifference of Inspiration

Wanton, you tease, like a Whore, my artistic senses, Witholding from my tongue Words that once flowed so smoothly. Wayward games you play Wrought around the haunting Wails of my heart, Wretched and silenced by a Wilted voice devoid of Inspiration

Woe! My Muse, Why have you forsaken me? Witchy sorceress or befallen wife, Which are you Who holds in your hands the Wordly essence of my life? Wake, inside me, Whirlwinds of rhymes and verses; Wrap, once again, your Wondrous magic around my pen, for Write, I must;  but, pray tell me, What is a poet Without Inspiration?

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