A Poet’s Muse

She took her clothes off,
seated herself by the window
as the cascading moonlight
washed over her body,
then placed her fingers atop her breasts,
looked into my eyes,
and asked me to write her poetry.

My blood became ink that night
as my shivering fingertips
coursed to infinity
every nook and curve of her body,
and that night lasted
longer than I could remember,
stretched farther back
beyond my own conception,
and further than the dark tremors
of my own stony grave.

A poet is as great as is his muse. By glorifying his muse he himself is glorified. And to his muse he gives his whole life even to the point of annihilation and death.

5 thoughts on “A Poet’s Muse

    1. A poet could extinguish his life writing for his muse and still he would not have given her back her due. This, I imagine, I intuit, is how a lover loves and worships, beyond quantification, beyond measure, whole.

      Thank you Allison. And congratulations for your book. I’ll see how I can get my hands on a copy.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I feel the same – that my muse and I are a love affair. Many faces, many forms, one undying, unbreakable connection. Your words are magic and real as flesh. Blessings, dear Pierre.

        And I thank you for your kind wishes on my book. Always another in the works, the work continues. If you would like you may purchase through Amazon, or through my Etsy shop I can provide signed copy. If I can be of any help, do let me know.

        Everything warm your way.



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