A muse is a sultry being.
She makes sure I write a poem,
and then slips through like the morning mist.
She doesn’t like being held much.
Yet there is a certain heaviness about.
Which keeps me from floating away.
How unbearable is my lightness,
And how tempting is her insistence.
She doesn’t like the hurry I’m in.
Dissolving me into her liquid morning.
She stirs me hard, she stirs me deep.
I have never seen the sun shine so bright before.
She notices that I don’t really taste life as it is.
Taste buds shying away from experiments,
Tongue being quite polite, shying away from adventures.
And she licks me dry, shows me what an ice cream deserves.
I cannot get over her taste.
She is the thirst before the rain, the hunger of the right kind.
She is the most perfect caress, and eyes which do the talking.
She is the unimaginable that makes you write.
As you strive and strive to put what she makes you feel into words.
An ever climbing high. An eternal loop.
Pushing me into the void and asking me to swim.
A muse is a reckless being.