
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
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