My muses come to me
With the faces of lovers.

Personified voices of inspiration,
Coming from the places I once knew.

But there's one that feels void,
Like it's from nothing, nowhere.

How strange it is to have a voice
Rattling around in one's head.

How strange it is to have a choice
Facing one at the end of the day.

Who is imagining the vermillion sun
Setting into the cerulean sea?

When everything feels like an answer,
I wonder who's asking the question.

I would like to see
What they have seen,

But all I can do
Is hope to translate.