Dear Sirs or Madams,
Of a literary persuasion.
I write today with,
A professional inclination.
I fear, and worry, my imagination’s clock,
Has, sadly, hit a writer’s block.
In short, I hope
(with a hesitance, hereout),
To employ the services of a muse.
Both, male and female,
Are encouraged to apply,
Though, I admit, my bias may lie,
Towards those who kindness, mercy and love,
Are praised and placed inherently above,
The human desires of power and wealth
And selfish ambition and pride in themselves.
Though, I suppose, this seems hypocritical,
I would confer this is politically cynical,
Rather, I’m looking for something. . . irrational,
An inspiration to fuel and flame my passion as,
Something and someone,
Yet, nothing and no one,
An ideal, an idol, a god and a human.
Something to write about,
A story to tell.
A depiction of the fire inside them that dwells.
The light, the colour the sun in their eyes,
The mountains and jungles, though secret, resides,
The palaces, mansions and kingdoms that hide,
Though present, disguised and entwined in their mind.
Alas, I digress,
Too often, I confess,
My mind wanders and turns,
Till I’m lost and undressed,
Left naked of topic, ideas and abreast,
Of chemical incapacity,
Of pure relativity,
So, a point of focus, a centre,
I seek, you see?
To aim my passion and love and thoughts,
And kindness and lust and heart, of course.
If you find yourself,
Write to introduce,
And flirt with my mind.
Tease with your words,
And caress with your lips,
And, if it elicits a feeling within,
I’ll write you a letter,
Of black ink emotion,
And seal it with blood,
And endless devotion.
Send it on its way,
To rest in your hands,
We’ll see where it takes us,
Let fate make her plans.
Your humble admirer.