The Writer’s Muse

In the cold barren gaze of the cynic,

you appear as a mirage, a view idyllic.

Fresh as fragrant earth after summer rain,

sweeping in to ladle out the pain.

Gentle fingers lifting the veil of shadows,

to reveal the colors of the rainbows!

Oh such beauty you fed his gaze,

a thousand poems fall short to praise.

Opening his eyes you made him see,

a world that could be;

the beauty in the everyday,

you showed him the benign way.

Where he saw weakness,

you saw tenderness.

Where he saw blind naivety,

you saw faith of a staunch variety.

Where he saw failure of continuity,

you saw promise of new opportunity.

Where he saw acts of cowardly fashion,

you saw deeds of measured compassion.

The world is dark with his veil.

With desolate tales he does regale.

Cover your eyes and see,

till you ache to be wild and free;

the overpowering grey, the oppressive solitude,

of the writer’s chosen servitude.

Perched high atop the reach of common man,

to pass judgement on the masses, he can.

Convinced of his own brilliance,

looking down at the people with arrogance.

But with the veil lifted he can see,

they are people worthy of beauty.

With rich stories and vibrant lives,

cut through his ice with kind knives.

Inspiring the cold hearts of writers,

the spark of a tender hope flickers.

From a pen that punctured the dreams of idealists, the pretentious scholar,

Now sprung forth beauty and hope, in strokes of brilliant color.

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