She reads his words contemplatively,
and cannot understand, how it can be.
This Muse he refers to so beautifully.
Is not her, or so she believes.
The sunlight never lit her hair on fire,
do twinkling stars,
dance in her eyes, she ponders?
No she concurs,
he must love another.
Sadness overwhelms her,
her poet husband is gifted,
and has spoken of his Muse frequently.
And for his adoration,
she fears she cannot compete.
to be a muse to someone else is a great honor. this poems show beautifully how one may not feel up to that honor that has been bestowed on them.
Breanna Shaylee
You have described one of the great problems in literary history, and you have done it with an immediacy that is raw and painful. This is as much the stuff of poetry as Beauty and Desire, you have made a good beginning here in this series.
Starward
This was tight, I really enjoyed it.
a writers muse is a fickle friend,a comforting, a tyrant, a tease, a temptress, and an absent longing. But always something the writer waits for, consciously or unconsciously.
Interesting what you have done here