Eight.

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.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s