My Muse

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So oft have I invoked thee for my muse, And found such fair assistance in my verse, As every alien pen hath got my use, And under thee their poesy disperse. Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing, And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the learned’s wing, And given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine, and born of thee, In others’ works thou dost but mend the style, And arts with thy sweet graces graced be. But thou art all my art, and dost advance As high as learning, my rude ignorance.

 

Ah, Shakespeare! 

He nailed it on the head; everyone has a muse.  That person that invokes feelings that must be put onto paper or burst within your soul.  They give the ‘mighty pen’ its power!  Those feelings and desires pushing across the page forever captured in ink—out of the heart for a moment giving peace until it returns, relentlessly.

The feelings invoked can be good, can be angry or can be righteous.  Or perhaps they’re nothing more than memories sparked by a word, a gesture, a scent.   Memories of times so far gone that they have become soft and gentle with distance, but at the time were hard and sharp.

Those eyes, that smile, that laugh—all perfect now.  And you desire nothing more.  Time heals all wounds but does not always dampen all feelings.   Not when a mere mention can send the flame coursing through your veins again…reminding you of what once was—and what shall never be.

This, my muse, is why I write.