My Muse
My muse, my friend, like you, I'm a dreamer,
treading upon the fickle path of fate;
tending to the scars, time left on my soul.
Memories have me looking inward,
writing poems to console my loneliness,
lamenting how rainy day blues have levied their toll.
You've shown me the beauty of morning dew,
and the surreal, unfathomable reverie
of dreamy places, and had me flying with the birds.
Sometimes, it feels like I'm walking on broken glass,
or drowning in a bottomless sea:
till I hear you whisper encouraging words.
Citing the beauty of life and the inevitability of death,
you taught me that grief is love with nowhere to go,
and made me one with the spirits in the sky.
Saturated in solitude, there is a dream place,
filled with ebon veins of old thoughts;
where childhood memories still make me cry.
You, like me, are a poet born from grief;
broken into a thousand beautiful pieces,
trusting that time will numb our pain.
And collecting all the pieces to life's puzzle;
I swim against an undercurrent of melancholy,
only to find that hope starts to flounder, once again.
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