i must

I must confess
the silence of your pen
hinders the muse that stirs from within.
you and your verse...
in a writer's trance you did place,
upon me, i felt the chase
now such is silence...so perverse
unnatural is for the day to pass
and not a word from you, my lass.
You, my Lady, I know of more thy station
of a bonnie,
but in my heart
the distinction, you, as my Lady or my Lass.
how do I part?
so the rules of each,
in the air about court.
so plagued, now i see...
my writing's will come, patience is my plea..
as I so judiciously sort.
the muse, an idol throughout time
to Homer, Keats and Shelley
each has cast their rhyme.
as a stone mason chips
appears the soul of his design.
deep, asleep, the marble comes alive.
with this I close...but know I continue and strive.