There are no novels,
no fiction neither, but
actual, camouflaged.

Material for verse
comes not from the
ether, but a muse.

Therein she hides
masked by a suitor
lover to laureate.

Make believe being
fantasy of imagination
given reality in life.

Hiding her on a page
in a maze of words,
iambic pentametre.

She rhymes with his
reason, reads about her
secret self, unknowingly.

Sometimes in simile a
metaphor an anagram
or a figure of speech.

She is spoken of in
her own presence yet
invisible to the crowd.

A creative influence,
a stimulus a deliberate
consideration.

She is nocturnal, a
silent presence felt
in times of solitude.

She’s 'ånne enigma'
thinks she doesn’t
exist, insignificant.

Has he created an
illusion, a mirage, or
a romantic concoction.

He is an avid follower
but does not think he
he subsists for her ?