Sometimes she murmurs softly,
While from ideas I’m trying to choose.
It’s so subtle, how she buoys my pen.
I’m truly in love with my muse.
–
I can’t remember the first time
She whispered in my ear,
Or the first time she stroked my cheek;
The memory isn’t clear.
–
Her name may be Erato,
Just one among her peers.
No names are required to interact,
She’s been there for thousands of years.
–
It’s an affair like any human kind,
With a premise based on love.
An elevation of two-way faith,
That nothing can rise above.
–
My muse comes by to drink my thoughts,
Maybe drop an idea or two.
The pieces get swirled around,
Then scribbled down anew.
–
Her presence alone provides support,
With no coaxing her to inspire.
She allows me to play my part,
While fanning my inner fire.
–
I asked if I could write simple lines,
She said that was quite alright.
We just sat their holding hands,
Way into the night.
–
Sighing gently in my heart,
She sees a dream begin.
I listen, as part of our sacred pact,
But drawing always from within.
–
There is a tenuous nexus between
My life and her ancient existence.
She listens to me writing from the heart,
Promoting ongoing persistence.
–
She is an ethereal goddess,
With far more patience than I.
There’s a balance between her measured support,
And my degree of willingness to try.
–
She helps me colour the world with my pen,
As I sit at the end of the day.
We quietly unite, to bring to light,
What this poet has to say.
–
She has been around since ancient times,
I will always honour her dues.
She easily quickens the beat of my heart,
I’m truly in love with my muse.