She wanders through the Labyrinth of thoughts, of dreams; of hopes, of fears.
A whisper on the winds of my imagination... to appear
unbidden;
when I least expect her... murmuring her soft demand;
and she... a stern, and jealous Mistress; bending me to her command.

She, who is called... Muse.


From whence she came, I have no knowing... nor how long she may remain;
nor then, can I guess her humour, when she comes to me again.
Will she bring bright hope of love, or sadness of a love mislaid?
Or, bitterness of love confounded?
Venom of a love betrayed?

She, who is called... Muse.


If bitterness, or venom, be it; then... in truth, I shall defy;
for that is not my way; not from my pen, will thoughts, corrosive lie.
The path I seek is softer... gentler...
love, as it was meant to be;
there is rhyme enough... and more;
of selfish, shadowed misery

from She, whom they call... Muse.


But, for such defiance... then, her retribution will be swift;
tantalising thoughts... impossible to rhyme, will be her gift;
or, perhaps a sensual, honeyed web of thought, that can, but lead
to mangled couplets; ruptured rhymes...
something, that I do not need

from She, they would call... Muse.


She is a stern, and Jealous Mistress; but in truth, she will return
after she has ransacked all the Labyrinth... resolved to learn
where it is, that lie the sweetest memories,
safe tucked away;
but these are not hers for the taking, in this complex game I play

with She, who is called... Muse.


She whispers on the winds of my imagination, all the while.
But, will it bring to those who read...
soft memory?... A tear?... A smile?
A wistful smile, perhaps... for something lost, but still, sweet memory?
A smile of hope, for something, yet to come?
Tears for what could not be?

This then, is She who is called... Muse.