My Muse

I’m humming a tune that I can finally remember. I write it down. The words float to me easily, the melody plays in my ears, I am immersed in the sound of beauty. A few tweaks and I’m onto a masterpiece.

The ideas come freely, I am a-gaggle and a-goggle with giddy delight. I laugh and smile, a little less hollow now. I’m wrapped in words and the plot rolls before me like a river to chart my course to the path I had struggled to achieve and yet never quite approached.

I am watching romance films and I don’t know why but I find them charming rather than nauseating.

It’s like the bubbling in my chest, the joy of life, the crisp of autumn, all combine to make me alive. I want to be alive again, and my fingers and heart and soul are dancing a melody of something genuine and new, something unfolding from inside like a sheltered flower that finally bloomed.

This didn’t happen before and I don’t know what it means now that it is.

I just am.

I exist and for once, that’s okay.

Are you the one who unlocked my creative side? The side so still and cold I thought it maybe had died from neglect or… sadness.

With all this, I am feeling again, and that means that pain is on the way. Time to slaughter and slay and to forget all my names.

And yet I cradle it close, like a long lost lover. Captivated by it’s light and beauty. I am subdued by its power and it rules me. For a time, for a season. Will it fade away and leave me again with the gray?

Is this a love? Or is this pain disguised as pleasure?

When will you hurt me. Again.

Metal and edge, the beauty of a katana is not just in how it gleams in the light. But in its slash and cape of blood. Likewise, something this beautiful starts with joy and cuts to the quick in a sharp and incisive way. Needlepoint my heart. Cover my eyes, and make me love again.

It hurts, it’s love, it hurts.

It’s love.

It hurts.

It is raw and untethered, like grated nerves stretched for piano wire.

It cuts yet the sound is piercing.

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A Spark

Life is beautiful in pain, with the tinged edges of lofted memories.
Like peanut butter smeared on celary
Or caramel chocolate.

But this isn’t a conversation about food.

It’s been 5 months, so much has changed
Faster than even I could have arranged.
The barometer of time
Can erase much from the lines.
But never the emotion
Of words left unspoken.

I wonder sometimes about the options,
To roads full of cautions;
In the end, people are themselves;
It’s too much to keep them assigned to their shelves.
They are free
Just like me.

I laugh now more than I cry,
Some things I remember with a sigh;
This path of decisions,
Not everyone wants to listen.

After so long in the dark,
I emerge in the sun, shattered and stark;
And yet I am comfortable with these marks.
It is my history, my grounding story.

The harsh disconnect of being unmoored,
A history shrouded in blank pages, torn;
That lack of anchor both empty and freeing,
Hence a future full of meaning.

I build again and again.
I try not to be discouraged by the end.
Because the close of a chapter begins another.

So I close the pages of yesterday;
My joys, regrets, and past ways.
Because new leaves have unfurled,
This growing tree expands my world.

Joy tinged with sadness,
Peace with gladness;
In a way I had to break,
To put the pieces in this brand new shape.

So in a way I must thank the trauma,
That ended so much drama;
And freed me to be more in line
With this beauty unconfined.

When the forest fire dies
Smoke and ashes flies
Seedlings will grow
And the coals will show

A brave new beginning. . .