The fine art of surrender

            The fine art of surrender

The boy cannot thrive with an empty belly
or a slap across the face.  He cowers deep inside himself,
concealing his innocence, his dreams, his muse.
      He grows in size and fear
He listens for the sounds of footsteps, heavy with malice. 
A sound. He freezes, sucks in his breath as the crash
of the icemaker leaves his heart pounding.  Days like this,
he’s left with nothing but luck and foolishness. 
         and learns the muse cannot survive
He learns he can shut down the flow of emotion
like a valve, a faucet.  Better cold than afraid. 
He shows no fear, but his soul dies a little.
         unless it has a place to hide.
He wants to belong, but sounds of footsteps
choke off his hopeful song.  In places
dark and lonely, he mourns again this abandonment
Even his inner fire threatens to grow dim.
         He questions and learns
Finding absence in himself, he searches for his muse
in the love and affection of a skittish woman.  Each move
he makes, she moves further away; an endless game of chase.
He finds no other answer but to stop and wait.
         the fine art of surrender. 
Sitting still without a word, he is alone and losing hope
this woman will reciprocate the love he needs to show. 
Just as his eyes grow heavy, he hears the cadence of feet
on the hardwood floor.  The wounded child within him
weeps for the lost anticipation of a simple footstep,
the giddy excitement of a parent, a visitor, a friend. 
He whispers to the one he cannot see,
“I am only me.  All I can offer you is this.”
         That is when she finds him.
Just then, she wraps her arms around him in a warm embrace,
while upon his head she plants a gentle kiss.
         Sometimes muses can be like this.












Below-old version









The Journey of Muse and Man

The muse shrinks like a toddler
who cannot learn and hope
with an empty belly
or a slap across the face.
The little boy cowers down inside himself,
concealing what is left
of the innocence he was born with
before he entered this hell.

The muse withers like a child
who hesitates before he speaks,
listening for footsteps in the hall.
The squeak of the floors
shuts down the flow of thought.
As fear again grips tightly,
his soul is locked in its cage
turning creative energy to rage.

The muse seeks refuge like the angry boy
who hides in the wayward teen,
He yearns to belong
while sounds of footsteps
choke off his hopeful song.
In places dark and lonely,
he mourns again, this abandonment, 
and wonders what went wrong.

The muse is tentative like a man 
who searches for his elusive muse
in the love and affection
of a skittish woman.
Each move he makes her way
moves her further away
till he finds no other answer
but to stop and wait.

Sitting still, without a word,
he is alone and losing hope
that this woman will reciprocate
the love he’s learned to show.
Just as his eyes grow heavy,
for sleep has long been scarce,
he hears her footsteps in the room.
But this time, his terror subsides.

The wounded child within him weeps
for a childhood he has missed
and wonders if she will accept him as is.
He whispers to his muse, "I am only what I am. 
I can give you nothing more."
Just then, she wraps her arms around him
in a warm embrace, while upon his head
she plants a gentle kiss.

Sometimes, muses are also like this.


SWPoet