Muse

I suspect my muse is a reminder of pain. My muse is my grounding, my love; what keeps me attached to earth - my muse's perfume comes over and around me when I am on her firm footing. That all is, and so all is beauty, even pain, only 'pain is just another shade' my muse reminds me-and then she reminds me of the beauty of color and I become unconcerned with which color meets my preference.

I may call my muse 'her' or 'he', 'them' or 'it' - regardless, she is formless in many forms and she has her way with me. Towards her I am truly powerless, and the worst time is when I have power against her! When I can keep flying higher and look down below, bewildered that she does not want to follow me in the sky, or that she is not above me; but how will I find my firm footing in the sky? My rock in the clouds?

For there, where I have firm footing, she sings to me; there, where my stomach-turns with my higher-flying is where her song becomes what I breath; but how, how will I find rocks among clouds?

On the tops of mountains.