A Muse Alone

If mermaids turn to sea foam
and faeries melt to dew
and gods turn mortal
Then what of a muse?

Are we but sparks
stars in the night
for others to use
and burn out?

If we are soulless as well.
but fire burning in a body
to shed light to those
blinded by complexity...

Do muses fall in love
or are we heartless
as the gods of old
living through mankind?

Are the words we whisper
in nights of whimsy
are etched upon paper
are all we leave?

How can one inspire
humanity from within
when one's own existence
is lost in inner space.

If... one should
encounter another...
what would transpire
in those communiqués?

Would they survive
as before
when parted ways
then ensue?

If all mysticism
were spent between
what would be left
of emptied muses dreams?