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So many words both heard and said
And yet they're often hard to find To somehow turn into a poem They just don't seem to come to mind Oh what to write this early morn Of love, of hurt, of what has been Of memories both old and worn Perhaps to never write again Sometimes he cannot make a rhyme No inspiration stirs his hand A work of art takes so much time He needs the stars or ocean sand A work of art this will not be Just like so many more before The fire is what this one will see Rejected lines strewn on the floor Oh he could write of ocean dreams The drowning girl he saved one day But nothing comes to mind it seems So often times his words will stray For many years when late at night He'd turn and there she was to see She'd put her hand on his to write He'd thought a poem there wouldn't be Sometimes she unexpected comes This vision borne on air so sweet She strokes his brow and often hums And then beside him takes a seat Her presence like a warm embrace She finds the words he struggles for She's dressed in satin sewn with lace He's seen her many times before To waist her carmine hair has grown And clothes the curves of womanhood She only comes when he's alone And how he wishes that she would This morning she is nowhere found This muse that drives him so to write No hum he hears, there is no sound She always leaves with coming light This morn she didn't come at all And left he was to struggle on Perhaps the next time she will call When it is late and he's alone The poem he hoped to be his best In fireplace goes until again Another morn she ventures by This muse he's come to call a friend |