He wanders aimlessly through
a mundane life that has left him
barely breathing, half alive.
Once an optimistic writer, words
flowed like honey promising
so much more, yet monotony
caught him unawares, moved in
and became his closest friend.
One day, while sitting in a little
cafe he frequents, he begins
to write again, nothing remotely poetic
at first, a hodgepodge of words,
not quite coherent thoughts, taking
shape into something, yet nothing.
Gazing out the cafe window, he
notices a woman walking by,
she turns and smiles at him.
His breath catches, lost in the
henna-hued pools of her eyes,
and the come hither look that
seems to emanate from them,
then like a dream, she is gone.
He can still see her lustrous
raven-colored hair, his hands
wrapped round those tresses,
pulling her body to his, she is
there every night in his bed,
haunting his dreams.
He brings her to life each
day in the words that flow
from his fingers onto the page.
She is a demanding mistress,
this muse of his.