The song had not left
The tip of her tongue,
Had not been penned in ink,
Or thought out in blood,
Before it filled in her heart
The wondrous joy of its coming.
Never had she met one
She could adore more,
Than the voice of a Songbird,
Singing deep and sad lore,
Of her wisdom gained,
And lovers lost to time.
Nor ever did she feel complete,
Without her favorite tune
Playing on the radio,
Electric guitar, and drumbeats,
To take her high and bring her low,
And finally settle for acoustic strings.
The poetry bled from her pen,
Onto pages waiting to be read,
Words that wrote themselves,
And she watched in wonder,
As each quivering page after another,
Filled with the ink of her thoughts.
Her dear Muse paid her a visit,
Bringing songs from afar as gifts,
And taking a little of her soul,
In the form of penned thoughts,
And music strummed from her guitar,
As a gift to the world beyond.