My Muse, My Mistress

She came into my life with a glance, a whisper and a red dress.
We met years ago at a party, she was standing in a crowd with a glass of wine in her hand. Looking so elegant, calm - strangely dangerous...

Our eyes met as I drifted her direction, drawn in by her beauty and mysterious demeanor. We exchanged a cordial greeting, I reached out to touch her hand. We talked long into the night about everything - and nothing at all.

She told me of adventures we could discover, beauty we could create. I believed; I had found my muse. Promises were made, dreams were created. I dove into my writing with a compulsion and desire unbridled by fear, reflecting my life's story for all to see.

We bonded, we created, we wrote into the night. The adventures we shared, the broken dreams we brought to light. We drank our desire, reeling from the perfume of success.

Alas, My muse, she is a harsh mistress, she demands attention with a iron will that cannot be denied. If I refuse her company, she whispers to me, calling me until I respond. She cannot be denied.


My muse, my mistress calls to me with the siren song of promise, pulls me into her web of desire. I inhale her sweet perfume as we greet each other, diving down into the depths of lost love, unbidden desire and broken dreams. She holds me under, drowning with wave upon wave of written reflection. When I break free, the loss is too great to bear, even if the creation is finished.

She is a fickle one; my muse, my mistress.
When she grips my soul and renders me helpless, I can only surrender to her wishes and bow my head in submission to her whim. She sometimes grabs me by the hair and drags me away to create that sorcery only she can entice from me.
When she is gone, the emptiness consumes me and I wish for her harsh demands.

At times she is like a ghost, I cannot touch her at all. I am desolate and alone, without direction or cause. I wail and weep, I hold my breath with anticipation of her return. I cannot think, I cannot write - I cannot create the beauty she brings.

OH! My muse, my Mistress! What have I done that you deny me? I would suffer any injustice to endure your company - just another moment, just another rumination written down. I would willingly sell my soul to bid your return.

Then - AH! She drifts back into the room, as if she never left; and whispers of the newest adventure we must create.

Copyright © 2015, Sandra J Oliver. All rights reserved