A Muse

She is mostly beautiful, more mysterious,

her heart finds its happiness

in sitting on the shoulder

of an artist

in his dreams.

Unearthly as it seems,

she is 

crafted of silk and gossamer,

feathers coat her wings,

withered against her rosy arms

they are 

dove like white.

He works very silently,

yet he whispers to his muse;

holding her arm against his breast

his thoughts carving their way into words.

He writes.

She thinks of many things of pleasure,

of cool meadows,

green grass,

the freshness of being

the new ideas;

the inspirations of all the times

upon this shoulder she has pressed

her percious drops of limpid sweat.

They are now his,

which he cannot easily wash away. 

Next he furiously works to keep his pace,

the ideas come

and he is satiated with her inspiration.

She finds herself no longer so needed

and focuses on the distant cries she hears.

Her use is only to those who pierce the night

with their laments

to come alive,

to create,

to really live again in their work.

Dedicated to Rosycheeks and Lea Lane 

May your muse visit.

Copyright 2011 by SheilaTGTG55