Is that all she will ever be, a muse, from a small box of memories,
Where my eagerness sang too much a song to play on heart strings,
And eye gazes move deep through to the soul where feelings play.
Was it about the moment where word's web released their hold,
So taking this mystery and colouring in the light of day's honesty.
Such crime in dreams, when dreams need to live, should not be so.
Take her, the muse, and drive the passion to it's deepest hole,
To find light in sorrow, and fertile soil fed with this sadness.
Or to set free, on wind, that allure in these hearts that fly on high,
So that each and every moment her embodiment becomes my muse.
copyright © Rob Snow | creative 2010-2018
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