Apparition # I---Muse

I exist in a twilight world, a courtyard shadowed from the sun
Not to expose to much at once
And bask in freedoms forms
I am the feet of Fred Astair that cavort across the floor
The cane that taps, top hat tipped
The dry ice that swirls in a mist
 Premier tickets you had in your wish list
Hold your hand and change your mood
The starting pistol to your head
Its not a race a paper chase
You are the compositor I just a "will-o- wisp"
Despair does not come to my door
That mood I leave to those more dower
I am Flash Gordon leaping from a tower
Of Inspirations golden shower
 To streak across the intelect when you least expect
A disembodied vision drawn off line with no precision
The stop and go of a western halt
The sting of words from a catapult
Portrayed CV my right to choose
Colaborate or just hang loose
That trancience a spook a muse