on her silver platter

as her gift-horse mouth
gently neighs

all the words you cannot say

(the words that matter)

she says “if only you could
know my love, that
when spoken, words grant
strength to bear..

the feelings that
gave birth to them.”

–

Inspiration comes then;
for every realisation,

Follows a conclusion

aching to be coupled
with a solution

that inherently evolves
into a resolution…

an interpersonal revolution

that is entirely you.

–

He whose blood
rushes to his head

Will turn to find
his muse is dead

–

He. Aghast.

“But what is it you
would have me ask?”

the muse smiles
and comforts;

“you just did love;
for every answer

begins with a question.”

–

<end/arken2014>