the muse
she is like a penny, face up, begging
to be lifted from the asphalt, treasure
promised if I dare give her a moment’s
thought, a hint of blush dusts her cheeks,
eyes, dark, translucent blue, cerulean really,
that pierce my soul, first glance, drawing
me deeper… she likes shadowy places,
nooks, crannies, pre-dawn and gloaming,
alcoves and hollows, her scent is musk, with
undertones of moss, earth and ink waiting for the
quill’s long, lingering dip, pale skin like velvet,
cool to the touch, covered in baby fine hair that
glistens in the light, her hair, fiery red, long,
wavy, cascading softly past her shoulders…
she is not the life of the party, but her words,
softly spoken, draw select clusters of seekers, like
me, who have grown to appreciate her wisdom
and honesty…fools vex her…she has been known
to slay them with a single line, but mostly
she ignores them, pearls and swine, you know,
for those of us who are privileged to call
her friend, to see the world through her
eyes is like peeking through a forbidden
keyhole, Valhalla waiting on the other side
~kat
For MindLoveMiserysMenagerie’s
Sunday Writing Prompt – To write about my muse as
if she had been given corporeal form and could interact with the outside world.
