To You My Muse
To remain mute, silenced by night’s ink,
is unbearable, these pen hands trembling
at the mere notion, I cannot hold back the wind
for my heart would sooner stop beating.
Poetry has overwhelmed my senses, the poem
my breath, each word a deeper line carving its way
into my flesh, searching for your soft and tender folds,
to envelop your skin, to taste your mouth.
You are the muse these days, my retreat.
The passion has been ignited as it was with Beethoven
writing to his beloved.
You are the whale song shattering the deepest blue depths
with that eerie and yet beautiful sound,mournful but so melodic.
You are those notes, sung with an opulent vigor,
evoking a passion that has lay dormant, waiting, resting.
You are the muse, my siren who calls out to me
when I daydream, when I sleep, when I write.
You are the adjectives pulse, the verbs action,
the drumming thump of every consonant, the peel
of every drummed syllable.
I sing you in every sentence, I touch you with every line,
caressing your curves with a lyrical voice.
You send chills to my quill, making me quiver with delight.
You intoxicate every blue sky I wade beneath,
occupy every summit to which my words seek to climb,
you are the poem, its breadth and scope.
I reach across the vastness of time, hoping for but a glimpse,
I traverse canyons like an eagle soaring the clouds looking.
You have arrested every thought, become every instinct,
inhabited every nook to where I sought refuge.
I inhale you from a distance, you are the inspiration.
You are the muse.
Kevin Harling.
