For all the written words which others see
I here disclaim all solo voices read
Into the work which craft has wrought in me
And claim the muse which lives in me is dead.
She has no art but that which was bestowed
And cannot thus be lifted into heights
Of which she is not worthy. On no road
--The gloried or the humbled--set her sights.
The craft of words, the love of them, the art
Which flows from hands to ink to page to eyes
Is one which has enraptured this one's heart
But cannot be her own despite her tries.
Then is the road to passions shared flung wide
Should the poet learn to wean herself of pride.
postscript
I believe all talent to be God-given. And if I have any worth praising, it's because I've been blessed with it from someone else.