A Writer and His Muse

All that is above shines down in magnificence
When it is day and there is light
We touch only with our eyes, the elegance
And close our eyes, and dream in the dark of night.
All that is below brims with might
When a roar, a hiss, a roar, a hiss
Of nature whips, and hues so bright
Give a gentle touch, and nature’s kiss
I am just a man; a writer, and his muse.

In the night, under the light of the lamp
I sit, an open book, a pen at hand
What I write, and what I see clamp
Sometimes, even for me, it is hard to understand.
In the night, under the light, I sit
On a cold bench, and thoughts of above and below
What I see, and what I write
Bring above below, and below, below—
These worlds meet, and it’s magic, as S.K. would describe
When ink, and paper meet imagination, it’s power; it’s true
That above meets below, and below, below; I scribe—
A writer and his muse have only one job to do.

And I am just a man, o’, I am just a man
A man with eyes that I close, and I see heaven
A man with hands that scribe they will, because scribe they can
I sit on a cold bench, under the light, it’s 7
I have never been to the sky above the clouds and the blue
And I have never dived to the depths of the ocean too
But this night, I walk lands that before, I could not
And so, I dream, because walk them awake, I cannot
I am just a man, o’, I am just a man
A man on the moon, and a child in Japan
A mother in the UK, and a dreamer in America
A writer and his muse, a writer in Africa


I couldn’t make this yesterday, so I thought, why not today? I hope you enjoy this one. Another post is coming up, see you!

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Photo by Harli Marten on Unsplash

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