My muse won’t let me rest,
visiting me at the most inopportune times,
demanding my attention, my affection,
just to prove her hold over me.
And I give it, every time.

She scares me with her seductive power
the ferocity of her hunger.
The ever-present threat of her absence.
For her I forget to eat,
forget to bathe, forget to shave,
forget my wife,
forget any distraction
that keeps me from hearing her small voice.

I’m a slave
I’m a slave
I’m a slave to her rhythms.
To declare my love is a waste of breath.
She knows she owns me.

I cannot hope to possess her,
nor bend her to my will.
But maybe … in those still moments
when I hear her soothing voice with alarming clarity
I can hold her, if only for an instant.

My Muse shows me Truth
and the Truth shows me the Creator.
I delight in her. In her I find rest.
Yet I hate her.
My peace and my torment.

Thoughts for her consume me in a fire of prose and images.
Words come with grace and ease
The story is where we meet,
for a brief respite.
We make love to the page
Inspiration and servant
Everything falls into place.
I can’t force her.
I beg for the release only she can bring.
So when she comes, it’s perfect.

But when we’re done,
with my heart still thudding in my chest,
she departs.

And I long for her all over again.

She drains me and yet restores my soul.
My mistress.
My muse.

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