The Male Muse Poem by Suzanne Stroop

Apart from everyone else, he stands alone.
Suave, built to last in a world full of fast paced mayhem.
His features unlike the gods of old, are visible.
Brown eyes, bold brows with a crease between them.
A nose with a slight downward curve and ears,
Not caring to be seashell shaped but longer,
Adept at hearing each sound the universe allows.

Tall, yet not broad with muscles etched in steel,
But thinner with slight wrists and piano fingers.
He stands balanced between two worlds.
One of music, the other of past lives...
Lived so he could say his piece.

His lips take sips of cold water,
Never quenching a thirst that's always there.
Time with hands that wait tick slowly,
Giving the man rewards he never wanted.
But he takes them, humbled by the offer.

His gifts, solid and written on old vellum,
Float like the wind itself, full of notes and words,
Never spoken and forever sung out loud.
For he is the words, coming from the land of his past.

His lanky legs, thin but full of grace, bend as he takes a stool.
One of many, full of tales yet to be told.
They whisper to him and he writes down what they say.
The people see him and remember,
The boy, the young man, and the middle aged one,
With a voice like velvet.

Now, he stands even taller than before.
Sure that the words from yesterday were heard.
His steps are strong and still stride across a platform made for him.
His guitar, whether formed of black or blond wood,
Sits magically in his arms, knowing his fingers well.
They respond as he strokes them, understanding what to do.

Apart from everyone else, he stands alone.
He is the male muse of music.
A poet whose sword is but a pen that seeks and then sees the words.
Yet it is a weapon that hold a power above all others.
A weapon never kept under lock and key,
But instead, shared with a world who listens.