My Muse



My muse is delicate, needful, loving, punishing.
She often sits on my shoulder wearing a sheer wrap,
inciting me.
When I abide in other than her will, a wraith swirls,
watching my every move; coaxing my thoughts.
She has no time for other than her wants.
What reason could I have to ignore her?

I bend—bow—to thoughts piercing my dreams and she smiles.
Knowing I am hers.
My mind becomes that of a child,
I feel her warm touches of contentment.
Words, plots, characters, dance to my fingertips,
leading to I know not where,
but with confidence as my muse smiles.
Open mind with only a guide that brings words,
and shuts the world away.
I live, breathe, feel and need, only my words,
that my muse cuddles and sends with happiness.
I am hers, she is mine, we are together
in a world of our own making.

When all is complete
and I must turn to others to finish my task.
She pouts and grumbles but gives time,
Oh, so little time.
She will leave and not watch her servant
while he does what he must, for her.
But only for a beat in time.
I feel her impatience to be on the hunt again.
I give in.