Why is the pen always out of ink?
Is it really a wonder;
Have you not read all that he writes,
in the shadows of the wee hours
whilst I sleep?
The moon is on the rise
and the mood is warming
the breath of the night.
The cravings for sweet metaphors
come alive in his poetic mind
as he calls for me to come
and play once again;
to be his angel.
"Come to mind" he says to me.
"Come, my muse of the night".
I am but an innocent reader of his poems,
a captive audience of one, by day
and an unknowing seductive muse by night.
How is it unknowingly that I invade his mind
and become the muse of his desires?
Like the depths of a dark ocean, have my
eyes revealed my most womanly secrets?
I am but the grass that only looks greener
on the other side of the metaphor.
I am but the rhyme that fanned out her
tail feathers only to fall flat on the floor.
Still, he calls me to mind in the cool dusk.
And once again I am his muse of the night.
The lines on the paper heat up with each
stroke of the pen as ink flows with celerity.
He can't help but express his male excitement
and in his nervous state...forgets my name!
