The Writer

I need a muse

(The writer mused)

I've been betrayed

My mind is frayed

I've lost my touch for words.

Goodness only knows

What is a poet

Without his prose?

Upon the early morn,

Heavy lidded

And beard unshorn

I spied an angel

In the mist

The glow of sun

Would gently kiss

A golden curl upon her cheek

Eyes of blue, piercing, deep.

Oh! To call out to her

To run to her and reach

To touch that fairest

Softest of cheeks!

Those golden curls!

Unforgettable such entrapment would deem

My fingers could only dream!

Forage around the betrayal of my mind

I need peace and woe is mine

In the depths of the darkness there is something there

Burning and burning without hesitation or care

I do feel the warmth,

It encircles me

And quill to parchment

Finally beckons me.

I have become one with the words,

The world is on fire

For this fair maiden

Fuels my only desire.

Thank you, dearest one

Your kindness cannot be outdone

Within the scope of my imagination

You will always be immortal,

Not a centerpiece of infatuation.