The Writers Muse


How easily the writer became my muse
He was swept away by the jazz playing in the kitchen
I was swept away by his being moving so freely
How he moved, so freely, amongst the light
Without attachment of a single inhibition or concern
If anything drew me in it was this
As I stood afar in the front doorway
Watching as this man moved like a child
For my eyes to capture such a beauty
What have I done to deserve this
Absolutely nothing, I have done nothing
But everything in all its glory has led me here
How easily the writer became my muse

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