She walks in beauty,
Her steps leaving a trail of desire
In her wake.
The touch of the Divine
Rests on her fingertips,
Slender as willow branches,
That twine through my hair
As I lie in the lap
Of her wonder.
Her whisper is the harp's breath,
Soft in my ear,
Speaking the mysteries of inspiration
To my soul.
Her eyes are the doorways to
The Other Realms,
Those places lost in time,
Inhabited by the ancestors
Of forgotten lore.
She lazes by a Grecian pool,
Gazing upon her own reflection,
Naive to the enchantment
That surrounds her.
Within her soul lies
The secrets of ancient gods,
Her heart writes the histories
Of Man in blood.
Yet all her thoughts are pure,
Neither evil or good,
For they are the essence
Of Spirit.
Always at the corner of my eye,
She is the glimmer of hope
Reflected in the hearts
Of innocent babes,
And the glint of sword
Clutched in the conquering
Hero's hand.
She weaves her magick
About me and I cease to exist,
Lost between the threads
Of her mind's tapestry.
She is the bright flame
Of inspiration
And I am the moth,
Forever seeking the favor
Of the Muse.

... Moone

Copyright © Dwareniel Moone