Muse

How is it that you always are there
When I return from my many strayings?
Always ready to pick up where we left off,
Mid-kiss though it was.

When I am cold and dripping from the rain,
You embrace me, and warm me
With your whole body,
Until our eyes glow with each others’ heat.

I move, and you bring forth sound.
A lover’s hymn,
That only we two can sing.

Passion grips us in its hands,
One of steel, the other of ice and feathers;
Driving us toward something inevitible.

I cannot see the end!
The oracle who has always served me,
Is no longer waiting by her well of vapors.
But it doesn’t matter.

Now we are racing ever faster,
Pastures and wooded copses flashing by.
No time to stop! No time to stop!

Finally, we crash through the end,
With a sound like smashing glass!
And we become a fading memory of the mad ride.

I turn to you,
And, halfway through the kiss,
I am gone, again.

A poem for and of my muse: the making of music.

Los Angeles, November 8, 2013

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