Muse

April 13, 2018 by Usha Pisharody 6 Comments

A-muse-d She may be

Each day, when I so

Desperately seek her out.

She smiles, at the nick of time.

Graciously lets me swagger

(in the belief I masterminded them)

In the surfeit of words she shares.

She brings Magic, she does.

Even I, in my arrogance,

Must admit.

The kind that stretches

Beyond imagination;

Past spells cast to

Invoke, evoke, rebuke, choke…

She stays, companionably,

Inclining her sagacious head

Watching me chisel and hone a notion.

I might not acknowledge her,

Yet she lingers, a sheen in her  gentle eyes

That you could mistake for moisture.

Happy? Pride? The ramble

Exceeds expectation?

Maybe the cold shoulder I give

Could be it, too.

How she waits, so patient…

But the walls are up

And the gates are locked…

 

Till that desperate cry, for help

Leaks out, faintly.

She fixes her smile,

Waits upon the whims

And allows the rambler

To think she, herself, is the Muse.

13 April, 2018, Day#13 of #NaPoWriMo, 2018