Quiet inspiration, a flickering flame,
A restraining hand with demure's acclaim.
Whispers of beauty, softly spoken with a sigh,
Belies the insight within that lifts the eye.

A demure muse, content to hide,
Modestly nurturing the wellspring inside.
No grand applause, no spotlight to glare,
Has the simply joy of creation to share.

In unpretentious grace, the muse remains,
Engaged in a demure and modest refrain.
For in being demure, the spirit's muse is free,
To yield what the brash, rude impatient cannot see.
John Anderson, The Demure Muse

Nothing Feels The Same, Demure