The poet falls with night in the soul.
Her Muse catches her hair, and draws near with soft hands the feel of comfort and love.
"Where must I go, and what shall I do?" asks the tired bard.
You are the Light, and yet my fingers errantly wave your flames away.
My heart lies heavy in these mountains of the moon, and the days of bright sun are oft times unfamiliar and jaunted."
Musa smiles through tears as the poet joins with a pained reality spinning downward.
"I've no where else to go," Poet screams without voice, choking on the very foliage that grows in frustrated shadows.
Hand reaching outward, touching the Muse, an old bardess becomes young and soft once more.
Feeling the depth of her heart, the inspiration of her passion lifts a broken body upward, carrying it in those seconds when it cannot carry itself.
"For all my living life I may never understand why you love me, my Sweet Muse."
"Yet I think on you softly, with fondness of the soul. Your touch, were it water in the cisterns of a spirit, would flood my mind with a breaking heart sort of love that endures through any ache."
The Muse smiles, and the tears fade, exchanging themselves with those of the tired scribe.
"All I can do is love you." the poet rises to say.
"My heart is yours.
It always has been . . .
it has always said yes to say yes, to you."
The smooth tale may crack at times, and my pen might be scarce for ink,
but for you, I shall never grow tired of loving; I shall ne'er fall short of needing to feel you wrap around my wounds.
Nor shall one ever cease to gently tend and kiss the hurt of your scars.
The Poet says further, "This is my gift, and I fear it is all I have, sometimes."
"Yet," she whispers, "if my garden were flowered vineyards that bloomed for every second that I am yours in love, then you could walk said garden and tread only on the petals.
It is only my song, but it is for you, and only for you, my Love."
My body may break and my voice falter, but my hands will never tire of touching you. If your waters were youth-strong, I should drink them, and never grow old.
You are Light to me.
Nothing in the Universe could be more thankful for you, to you, and because of you, than I.
My Muse, my Dearest Heart," Poet whispers . . . when your blood courses, it is mine that runs red with passion. When my lips feel parched, yours swab away the heat of desire.
I only have my song, but it is Life, to me. Were Life the coursers of mighty steeds digging across the sea-salt laden beaches of time, then my body would bear you forward, and smile from the mirror at you . . . so sweetened by what I see when to your eyes, mine look.
I love you with boundless energies. The times when my voice cracks are pain that I bear . . . but you, my Sweet Musa Mea, you breathe and I come alive . . . once more.
G.
