She waits for me,
Her ethereal fingers patiently poised to pluck the thought strings of my inspiration...
Some days I awake under a crisp blue sky, and already she sits upon my shoulder,
Creation is then destined and instantly commences until the fuse flickers out and she slips into the shadows of my exhaustion...
Other days I wake with a vise on my brain and no matter how diligently I look for her she is unable to break through the clouds, She lacks care that I am conscious of her absence and desire only to have my hand guided by her sweet fire...
When her presence is erratic I remind myself that it is my own stubborn walls that keep her beauty from my garden,
For to be so perfect leaves little energy for specifically focused attention,
To intensely search for her in the labyrinth of the outside world is to tattoo disappointment on my future,
I lock not the doors of my church,
I must let go,
For just as she is my cherished lover, she is also the passionate lover of my enemy..
Ego is poison to her,
I do not paint the picture, ..the picture paints itself,
.. and I am the speck of space dust she deems worthy to hold the brush.
She lies hidden in all our hearts only to erupt from those who can, in this moment, let go of themselves, let go of control, and just be...
Created: Jan 26, 2010Document Media