THE MUSE

                        

We meet at last, My Friend,

Man of the moment

Legend says you hold the key to the Writer’s voice

On a thick, silver chain around your neck

That it holds a vial of Oscar’s fresh blood

Or perhaps a lock of hair

That you prefer a gin and tonic

To a bottle of vintage Pinot Noir

That you are rather indiscreet

When you are a couple of sheets to the wind

I hear you enjoy a rhyme, a ditty,

A poem of sweet intention

That my words reached across

Time and space

You heard me calling for inspiration

And chose to inhabit my world

We meet at last, my dear,

In The green Carnation at Midnight;

We spend our time in elevated suspension

Picking glitter off each others shoulders

We are of separate bodies,

Yet our heartbeats synchronise

Our words do pass from ear to ear,

Yet not a tongue appears through teeth.

With your brilliant mind

We are bonded far beyond convention

Metaphysically entwined

As you sip another gin and tonic

I watch you in a state of trance

The most gentle of creatures:

My heart pounds, an unnatural rhythm

As we do our dance

As we converse with just our eyes

Lazily reading each other’s minds

I tell you why I am here.

I need the key to the Writer’s voice

That is why I cannot speak.

The legend says the muse will come ,

Bringing beautiful things

In a flash of green light

In the darkest hour of midnight

In the special place I write.