Questing

This poem is dedicated specifically to Muse, she comes to me in different ways and with different moods but always with inspiration.

In thanks, I offer...




Questing - 15 Jun 92

When I learned to speak and write
Words like these came slowly.
Feelings that are commonplace
Now
Were hard to find, to touch, to see.
It was difficult to find
The real me
Amongst the others claiming to be I.
In a slow progression
The quest commenced
And passed through phases strange
Where I's of dimensions
Odd and unusual
Walked the nights and days
Of the soul
Stalked the wind and the ways,
Where poets danced
And sat and dreamed their timeless dreams
And drank the wine
The Muse had poured
Into the gilded chalice.
Once tasted, the bittersweet draught
Is found to be addictive
So now I take my fill,
The pain with the pleasure
Swallowed in equal measure.
Drink, drunk, intoxicated
With her charms,
The Muse holds me and I
In her spell;
Enchanted. Enchantress.
She who was and is and will be
Guardian, Guide, Protector,
Mother, Muse, Lover,
Friend. Eternal.




I give thanks to Muse; for pain and pleasure both give rise to wondrous things.