For a spell she strides
with me housed in my feet.
Then my joint pops
'cause shes risen to my knee.
Up she comes from my bowels
into my chest;
and when I feel her there
I know what's coming next.
My heart gets warm
and then it's time.
Sure enough she ascends
to my blade and into my ear
she recites her sayings;
which are all well laid
and were gathered
while walking with me
down below.
So over I roll
to turn on my light.
I grab my pad and my pen
and her poems I begin to write.
Why look at the clock?
I can not stop.
If I was to lay back down,
I'd just rock 'til I got back up;
picked it back up
and wrote 'til she said
okay you can stop.
The clock keeps the time.
She keeps the rhyme
going through my mind
'til I let it have it's space
between the blue lines.
She's my muse;
always sure to amuse.
She inspires me and says:
honey your pen is for you to use.
Then when her piece
has been spoken,
rest for me sets in,
because Ive come to yet
another end.


 

 Copyright 2006 Justice Jones