Formerly The Journey of Muse and Man. Overcoming damage of soul and man |
The fine art of surrender The boy cannot thrive with an empty belly or a slap across the face. He cowers deep inside himself, concealing his innocence, his dreams, his muse. He grows in size and fear He listens for the sounds of footsteps, heavy with malice. A sound. He freezes, sucks in his breath as the crash of the icemaker leaves his heart pounding. Days like this, he’s left with nothing but luck and foolishness. and learns the muse cannot survive He learns he can shut down the flow of emotion like a valve, a faucet. Better cold than afraid. He shows no fear, but his soul dies a little. unless it has a place to hide. He wants to belong, but sounds of footsteps choke off his hopeful song. In places dark and lonely, he mourns again this abandonment Even his inner fire threatens to grow dim. He questions and learns Finding absence in himself, he searches for his muse in the love and affection of a skittish woman. Each move he makes, she moves further away; an endless game of chase. He finds no other answer but to stop and wait. the fine art of surrender. Sitting still without a word, he is alone and losing hope this woman will reciprocate the love he needs to show. Just as his eyes grow heavy, he hears the cadence of feet on the hardwood floor. The wounded child within him weeps for the lost anticipation of a simple footstep, the giddy excitement of a parent, a visitor, a friend. He whispers to the one he cannot see, “I am only me. All I can offer you is this.” That is when she finds him. Just then, she wraps her arms around him in a warm embrace, while upon his head she plants a gentle kiss. Sometimes muses can be like this. Below-old version The Journey of Muse and Man The muse shrinks like a toddler who cannot learn and hope with an empty belly or a slap across the face. The little boy cowers down inside himself, concealing what is left of the innocence he was born with before he entered this hell. The muse withers like a child who hesitates before he speaks, listening for footsteps in the hall. The squeak of the floors shuts down the flow of thought. As fear again grips tightly, his soul is locked in its cage turning creative energy to rage. The muse seeks refuge like the angry boy who hides in the wayward teen, He yearns to belong while sounds of footsteps choke off his hopeful song. In places dark and lonely, he mourns again, this abandonment, and wonders what went wrong. The muse is tentative like a man who searches for his elusive muse in the love and affection of a skittish woman. Each move he makes her way moves her further away till he finds no other answer but to stop and wait. Sitting still, without a word, he is alone and losing hope that this woman will reciprocate the love he’s learned to show. Just as his eyes grow heavy, for sleep has long been scarce, he hears her footsteps in the room. But this time, his terror subsides. The wounded child within him weeps for a childhood he has missed and wonders if she will accept him as is. He whispers to his muse, "I am only what I am. I can give you nothing more." Just then, she wraps her arms around him in a warm embrace, while upon his head she plants a gentle kiss. Sometimes, muses are also like this. SWPoet |