The Pink Lady, My Muse
Feminine, glowing, and naked for all to see
She is on my mind, the unnatural beauty
One might say bizarre, freakish, and pink!
Thoughts of her will come and go
Centering herself in a dreamscape
A faux, man-made manifestation, or goddess
who will preside over artistic disciplines
Does she think of me while I dream, if so,
does she know me and what will
become of me, for heaven’s sake
Suggesting lyrical words of inspiration
As I amble through the valley,
many times, I have crossed her path
Restless visions, my meditation weakens
Last minute poems are shed, I retreat
I breathe deep, venture again, but must flee
A battle for words, it shouldn’t be this way
I stray about lost in a fog of notions
Searching for something to write about
Racking my brains, seeking, sneaking
Recalling a postcard from the past
A picture of a beautiful visage so to speak
Painted on a bridge made of stone
I’m stricken by my muse, her essence
Muses are gifts one nurtures and cherishes
Why, if I just make her my own
Feminine, glowing, naked for all to see
I’m sure she won’t mind consoling me
I wait under the pass, and listen to the silence
For a sign, a chirp, a soulful sound from a bird,
A lady I saw once on a granite arch
She came to me in a dream one night
Her painted body pink, her hair raven
An oak tree is present, twisted branches
straddled between her legs, there she sat,
as though part of the genus specie tree
I saw myself trekking towards her,
Why she beckons me, I cannot discern
The pink lady starts to cry then she sighs,
She whispers something softly in my mind
Tells me all her long-held secrets, grim and bright
A gift for me she muses—you will recognize in time
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