Muse

If we respect the velleity of life,
to muse is not an option one might find
from among the prosaic or latter-day poets.
Yet not as I will, but as you will.
Find among these sands, muses,
of deserts or beaches, entrapped
within the hourglass. You have an infinite
time, chances, coincidences, opportunities
strained out before you like neurons
fighting a war (gray versus white)
which matters not. Yet beauty is at stake
within the inky black. There is nothing,
nothing more humbling than to know,
to be remembered, in gray or black,
or marble-white. Statues preserved
in museums are made of plaster,
precisely defective in veracity.
So too, my muse of gray-black-white,
is my love for you.