The Muse

She walks in beauty with her Mona Lisa smile
Taming even the most wildest of wild
Their hearts fall victim to raging fires
That burn and burn till midnight hours
And I am one of those that show the symptoms
I am Picasso, I am George Byron
In matters of love I remain silent
For my work of her bares the roar of a lion.
If I described her, you would not believe
how her hair flows like poetry down her cheeks
Or how her lips are where the ocean and the shore meet
Or that her eyes, encompass still water than runs deep
Yes, Because of her many men have lost their sleep.

She is the proud evening star, admired from afar

Mid planets are her slaves, her beam on ripples and waves

Her reflection on the Rhone, is for what Van Gogh is best known

She has drove many to madness and plunged some into greatness

I am one of those inspired by her soul

I am Edgar Allen Poe and she is Helen

Decades of history weaved into her fabric

No place is big enough for her beauty not earth, nor heaven.

I do not speak merely of her looks; I speak of the prose within her book

Her compassion is unmatched by any mortal I have met

She is selfless and gives her all without regret

Her drive and her spirit can wake the dead

For she is life itself and the unknown that lies ahead.