My Muse is a fickle fair weathered breeze,
staying just long enough to rustle my leaves and abandoning me
burning in the passionate colors of Fall.
Empty, the leaves fall
deserted.


My muse resembles the elemental lightning
of a boiling summer night,
illuminating the sky for no longer than an instance.
all that was vivid and clear by his lantern spirit
now drips
sloppily in blacks and grays.
My Muse is a tentative, shy being
with the voice of a God.
Delicately he dances with my sleeping soul,
leading the steps like a puppeteer afraid of hurting his limp marionette.
Still and silent I feel the pull on my heartstrings,
my Muse gently testing the threshold of the human spirit.
I am aware of him
a warm hand closes over my heart,
as if reminding me that it's not a crime to be human.

My Muse is the love of my soul,
separate and opposite,
equal parts love and hate,
annihilating together in a firework display,
leaving me free.