His Muse


His Muse

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.

8 thoughts on “His Muse

  1. Muses

    Muses are fickle
    They seduce with wild abandon
    Then leave in the middle of the night
    Take flight
    Leaving nothing but scent and stain
    So you pick up your favorite writing tool
    Whisper a prayer
    Hope for a benediction
    When inspiration doesn’t flow
    You force yourself to spread the words
    But a forced poem is like an arranged marriage
    As for love it may grow over time
    Didn’t carry you to the altar though
    Better to wait for that floozy
    Who runs around inspiring the neighbors
    Leaving you to wear horns
    Knowing that she’ll return
    With a poetically transmitted disease
    And an encouraging word

    David Trudel © 2012

  2. Very nicely written. I enjoyed it a lot.

    It did give me an inspiration, though perhaps not one you might expect. I think I’ll write a story some day where a poet’s muse is this balding, annoying, fat, middle-aged guy who hangs around expecting you to buy him breakfast.

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