Dances With My Muse

Dear Muse, sometimes you are dull, senseless, paralyzingly, protractedly mute. You determinedly adhere to the dancehall wall, no magic spell conjuring when melodies swell; instead, you seem repelled by the score, whether upbeat or quiet. Limp, lifeless limbs refuse to be lifted to perform, lend shape to the theme, your mouth does not open to give me words that will live on my pen, you disdain to even begin but are sepulchral, voiceless, stifled. No stimulation stirs, imagination is dormant, static, seemingly dead. I inhabit the dance floor alone. Sometimes you are a ready partner, we blithely dance the night with effervescent steps, ethereal, fast or slow, we go circling the gleaming floor. You, so stately and steady, shape me to the charms of your tango or waltz. My gown drifts, lifts with the spell of movement, turning and spinning or sensuously drifting, bending me to your elegant flow. The music you choose holds me captive crescendos and quiets in turns, it yearns and yawns in my marrow, burns like a lover desiring release. Emotional waves sweep my psyche, feelings that never knew names, flames and ices tormenting, beauties and wonders transcending. Ink swirls drape on pale parchment birthing images like caged birds of exquisite plumage once freed soar with wind in their wings. May 13, 2022