my muse

my muse... Michael Clarkson

without hersad sick

poor crying missing longing reaching feeling nothing but always having her i could write the tragedy for the ages the teary futile wrenching prose the non-fiction of the lost love and dream of the life not lived

with hertrue happy loving joyous smiling sharing complete feeling those feelings so long left unfelt having her for always i can write the pure nights together the eyes that fill my heart the flushed cheeks beat skipping heart unyeilding smile soft touch softer kiss Cocoon Mark Sniadecki

and live my dreams for just one day

Dream up a night life to fill in my sleep, And string me a web of subconscious so deep, And weave me a lullaby to slow my heart's beat; I never have dreaded a canticle sweet, Go spin me songs of chrysalis.

Work through a memory long buried low, And seek out the substance of slumber to sew Deriving the fibers to spend with your hands From courtesies begged of the Fellow of Sands; Come, stitch my weary eyes closed.

For needy and weedy is this dusk field of mind; Plant it and shroud it with velvet in kind, And cover me, cloak me with whispers black-Lay me to sleep in a star-patterned sack As moth back to cocoon.