My muse
I’ve had muses.. now and before.
I’ve had muses.
That thing, which held my hand,
And walked me through a story,
Or a poem I wrote, later.
That thing, which was actually
A person. Or so I thought.
But then the person left.
My muse however, did not.
Infact, she found a vigour I had never
Seen in her before. She found
Passion, and sorrow, and love.
And she found me, in those days of
Despair, held my hand through the darkness.
Gave me the strength to hold the pen,
And put some blotches in ink on the paper.
I’ve had muses.. now and before.
I’ve had muses.
Time is one of those things,
That things you can never be sure of
Liking or hating.
Time does not care though. She is,
Was, and will be. She is the constant.
My muse on the other, is anything but.
She is a case in constant change.
The treacherous trustworthy woman in life,
Hard to please, Harder to keep,
Impossible to let go of!
My muse left me, hence. Left me dry,
Having consoled me in need. Or,
having done, taken, what she needed,
From me. Either ways, I was left alone,
In need. In desperate need.
See, I hadn’t just lost my muse,
I had lost her voice in my head, her soul,
From all I dared write. Nothing I made,
Was mine. And then, you found me.
See, I’ve had muses.. now and before.
I’ve had muses. But none like you.
You came to me as a result of a coincidence,
But then isn’t life a series of sometimes happy,
And at other times sad coincidences?
I think it is. As I found you, I find my voice,
My muse suddenly returned, only to be killed
Off by my sloth. But it did not matter, for with
You, had returned my muse. And I still don’t
Know if you are it, and it you. Or it’s something
Else entirely. You keep pestering me, to write
You a poem. Give you an ode. And I find it hard
To do. For I find it hard to describe you.
You are not a story, a thought I could pull out,
And put down on a piece of paper.
See, I’ve had muses.. now and before.
I’ve had muses. But none like you.
None so tenacious, none so complex,
None so beautiful, none so true.
I want to write of you, really I do,
But I don’t think I can, or ever will.
There’s just too much to you, as a person.
As an idea. But be assured my love,
That all that I write from now, till ever,
Will have something of you, if not be of you.
See, I’ve had muses.. now and before.
I’ve had muses. But none like you.
