she wasn't a muse
she was the heart and soul of poetry
written long before man or time
before language or song
waiting for a page
and a heart
she could lay down and spread herself out
in ink and blood
and write herself down
in a fairy tale of imperfect and impossible love
and bind herself to the spine of truth and between the dust jacket protecting the book cover of eternity
and be read by the heart she would know was her forever home