Reclusive Rhyme

The private poet, who sleeps so soundly in this bag of bones,
sometimes awakes, to whisper wonder words that I should pen - to please him,
since he is a poet after all.

He’s shy, yet eager to be read, sung or heard.
As if he were a soothing symphony or waves that swish and splash and wash ashore
a goddess girl for mortals to adore.

This poet, who's the peevish part of me, is tetchy, so I rarely rouse him up.
He slumbers, till my muse decides it's time
to raise a glass of rare reclusive rhyme.