/It’s been quite a while since I wrote something like this so forgive me if I may seem a bit rusty. But blades must be constantly sharpened or they lose their edge/
How sad it is to have a muse but not an art to honor her. If I were a minstrel, I’d write a song. A beautiful synergy of sounds in harmony. If I were a poet, I’d write a poem. A construct of verse and rhyme, given life by the heart’s breath and substance by the mind’s content. If I were a sculptor, I’d carve out a figure out of wood, stone, or metal or whatever material my hands lay upon. Emotions made manifest in physical form. Alas I am none of these and neither can I paint nor play music nor act sufficiently to do justice.
But alas maybe all that does not matter because these things do not change the muse herself. She of fair face and skin, hair as black and beautiful as the night’s sky. With eyes like stars, distant, mysterious, beautiful. Her stature short but her frame and proportions in special harmony. Her voice as soft as any harp but when necessary as stern and forceful as any orator. Her manner kind and friendly, playful but conservative, truthful and sincere, a gem in today’s fast paced culture. A muse indeed, my muse. I may not honor her with art but I shall honor her with ink of my heart’s blood.