'Don't you hate art with a capital A? ' asks the Muse
'Precious.' she adds 'Anything that needs to be capitalised, is but empty air. Unmade beds or calves in formaldehyde, I'd rather have the stink rotten flesh'
'But I say the Muses are Art with a capital A.'
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This is a beautiful poem on art and muse having touching expression and nice collocation. Thanks for sharing.