Angels and Lyres
My muse is an angel dressed in white.
Above my shoulder it now lingers,
Uncertain in the sudden daylight,
Holding a lyre in their five fingers.
The instrument is of classic mete,
With fine wooden frame painted golden,
And seven strings, all sounding so sweet,
Their tune evoking times of olden.
Is the muse girl or a boy you ask?
In truth, I think it undecided,
Inspiration forms to suit the task,
Whenever I need to be guided.
My greatest fear is the deadly day,
I sit down to write a masterpiece,
And my motivation is gone far way,
Recalled to a mount in ancient Greece.
14/04/2017
Copyright © Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer | Year Posted 2017
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