Muse Poem by Martin Ward

Muse
Listen.
Can you hear
the sound?

I held the moment,
cupped in my hand.

She came before.
Stopped.
Turned
as if to say
something.

But she was gone.

Why
could I not listen?

Panic.
Piano fingers
on a rug
in search of something lost.

I cannot hear her.
I cannot see her,
except in my mind's eye.

But she is there.
Somewhere.
Out there.

Sometimes
I feel her
on my face.

A tingle.

Exasperating.

Euphoric.

That
gentle touch,
or chill wind.

She moves me.
But how?

Butterfly.
Elusive.
Fragile.

Yet it is I
who flail
within the web.

Free me
from the moment.
Hold me
in your warm embrace.

Give.

Woman child:
you flit and dart
amongst us.

Like a lover.

Unconsummated.

Uncontrolled.

Creation of Adam,
our fingers cannot touch.

Daughter of Tantalus.

She feigns a glance
I cannot catch.

Will-O'-the-wisp
and mistress muse.

Sometimes,
if she should wake me
from my sleep,
I turn away.

Touch me
just once.

Come to me.