Who is the muse to the muse?
What sweeping curls,
what huddled flowers,
what honeyed dew gathers in the light
to make them glow?
What unseen thing
causes the poet to bend their head and say
this one
as if recognition itself were a kind of spell?
Who stands behind the beauty,
quiet and unclaimed,
pulling at the thread
that makes the painter’s eyes ignite?
Is it an inner radiance
a light that does not ask to be seen
but simply is?
Or something softer,
a kind of openness,
a naivety that has not yet learned to close?
Or something harder
a strength pulled taut,
twisted like rope,
held together by tension
until it shines with pressure?
Who is the muse to the muse?
And if they exist at all
are they aware of being seen?
Or are they simply living,
unmarked by the moment
that calls them into myth?
With sticky lips and swaying hips,
with languid eyes of desire
who is it
who brushes the soul
of the one they call Muse,
and sets her alight
into something like stardom?
Who touches the untouched thread,
the hidden seam beneath the glow,
where inspiration begins
before the brush is lifted,
before the pen is dipped,
before the first word ever dares to form?
Who sees her,
before she is seen?
Who calls her forth,
not as a reflection
but as a becoming?
And if she answers
if she rises, illuminated
is it because she was chosen…
or because something within her
was always already burning?
