The Muse



She patiently watches with eyes of coal.

Peering over his shoulder, through his soul.

She patiently watches him boiling gold;

His words to her, slowly crafted, unfold.


An ethereal whisp is all she is.

A whisper on the wind, a dream of bliss,

A touch of love and broken promises,

Memories and longings that burn to kiss.


The muse’s lips softly curl in a smile,

Watching her reason for being beguile.

His aesthetic prose, his constructed style-

Pouring forth, pulsing, flowing like the Nile.


At the end of the day, work put away,

So too is she, she can no longer stay.

For a Poet’s heart will too often stray,

And a Muse’s is too quick to give way.


Into another night, lost, unconsoled,

Left to want and wander in mute remiss.

Searching for someone, aching to inspire;

A true bond which will not lead to dismay.



sigh. it’s not perfect, but i’m done with it..

rewrote the first line/last stanza, will correct recording later..

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