With every whip of my pen,
wrinkled parchment and landscape,
I bleed caution in ink,
daring my voice to
artistically craft her beauty
in lines and white space –
envisioning her giggle and sigh
as she traces lines of muse.

She is my first thought and last –
straddling the lines,
hovering in creativity,
bleeding ink and thoughts
into words crossed out and read.

She inspires my days,
my stars, and the nights –
beauty manifested in
illustrations of golden haze.

I spend weeks
tracing the contours of her skin,
eager for inspiration to
develop and strike
ballads and sonnets,
literary heroism at its finest.

Yet no muse has ever touched
as sweetly with such a wicked
lash and streak –
violent temper to refrain
in poetic mortality.

She is ice in June,
blinding in twilight,
shining in starlight and sun –
fitting yet resistant
to lay in paper and share
her beauty to the world
in verse, in lines,
in love and rhymes.

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