My Muse

Sing to me, my bringer of words. Let your perfect image guide my mind. Let your song so pure be light to pen. My beautiful companion. My being of perfection. My muse. To whom all is owed.

Never could I write. Nor could I dream. Never could I be if not for your presence. My muse. Who sings me my stories. Who whispers me my poetry. Who speaks to me when none others dare about sorrowful topics none others dare. Who comforts me in sorrowful days. Who brings me purpose in sorrowful nights.

My muse. Who I could not be without. Your piercing shrills are music to my ears. Your disfigured form is beauty to my eyes. Your pitiful, mournful, agonizing radiance is the moon that lights my darkness. The bottomless void of your presence is my bringer of hope. Your relentless, forceful, harrowing grip is the path I perceive to reality.

So sing me thus your sonnets. Serenade me with your being. You are the siren who calls from pools of blood: life you offer at a cost. Beauty is your offer. Pain is your cost. I did not take it. Yet here I am. So sing to me your song.