She,
Stands beside me
Though not in flesh and bone.
It is in heart,
And mind,
And in inspiration,
That I feel her presence.
It is she that I write for.
Though, we no longer
Share the sweet kisses of youth,
We share a love and kinship
Which scores our lives like a bolt of fire,
Lighting our ways to the Hallowed Halls of Grace
And when
Another love claims my heart,
Or when my words
Bring a smile to a life
Mired in the midst of gloom,
It is she who should be remembered –
For taking a golem mired in writer’s clay
And holding my hand until words cushioned my steps
And I learned to walk a path of my own devising.
When a wave of sadness flows freely
From my pen,
I hope that tears touch her eyes only briefly
And with the most gentle sorrow.
And when I pluck a string on Humor’s Harp,
I pray that laughter pours from her
In such abundance that it affects others.
Yes, it is she,
Solid in her own beliefs but shy of spirit,
Who has helped to give my pen a unique voice.
Each scribe must have a muse of their very own.
Mine,
Quiet as a church mouse,
Will whisper in my ears,
Until my pen moves no more.