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He stared into the candle his thoughts without a cause A moment's hesitation when a poet's hand would pause Of castles evermore from chances left too late Nothing said within his soul could not create Darkness sat beside him the candle seemed so dim The velvet glove of silence that stole his spirit's vim Then through the quiet room came an echo of despair Soft crying in the night that filled the moonlit air The poet could only wonder of the weeping that he hears So fearlessly he ventured on toward the calling tears Beneath the greatest oak a brilliance did abound Frantic full with sorrow a fallen Muse he found The rapture of it all filled him up inside A moment lost in time from which to walk beside "Why, oh fallen muse do you sit here all alone?" She sat there poised and paused in silent reticent tone "You seem so melancholy is there something I can do?" And then she gazed upon his face her eyes were clouds of blue "To what, dear poet, do I owe such eternal gratitude? I inspire none the more and have been cast to solitude." "I am but a simple Muse I incite the poet's heart." He remembered words he couldn't write it tore his soul apart He knew the reason why for this fallen muse's curse The silence in his thoughts for timeless words in verse "Before the dawn becomes the day I'll return you to the light. I'll cast away your spell and soothe away your endless night." Her eyes were shut with promises to reckon her dismay The poet left her there taking care to find his way Returning to his dwelling place and to the candle's glow Like flowing rivers in the spring he expressed for all to know From that which held him back had surely passed him by Answers to the questions in lyric songs to fly To keep his promise true he went to find his Muse For dawn had broken way her hex would soon diffuse Yet beneath the father oak he saw no tempest bound And in her resting place beauty blossomed from the ground A brilliant rose of deepest red that bloomed before his eyes From joyous content he wept her gift to him of no good-byes 2016 Kelly R. Sullivan |
A bard, on his last quest to find new tales to tell. The moment before hope leaves him to the wolves, he is found, saved, and blessed by inspiration. Wonderful write, thanks for sharing. | Posted on 2018-02-05 00:00:00 | by endlessgame23 | [ Reply to This ] | Yet beneath the father oak | he saw no tempest bound And in her resting place beauty blossomed from the ground This was my favorite part. Thank you for sharing another well written tale. The Muse as a beautiful woman is common but not worn out for your use of it. Your ways with words could make the most cliché entertaining. | Posted on 2016-08-16 00:00:00 | by lori_tab | [ Reply to This ] | |