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a portrait

that night when words were whispering
and the room was quiet and stark
the thought in fearless beguile
mounted the empty page

like muses from the ages
it clasped the trembling hand
and in a fondled embrace
penned the painted picture down

courage sprung from syllables
from impressions old as time
and in that blessed time span
many a poem was conceived

i enthuse - my existence
resembles not an illusion
nor a sheer waste of ink
but rather a portrait
or a spirited work of art

Editing stage: 


Muses play at your request and meander across pages of white, leaving something very much like the thing you have been thinking of.
Let them play till their trail fades, and words stop flowing, then take a great stick of reorganisation to the sheet, and paint true the outline the trail of the muses, that you have made clear, Yours Ian.T
PS:- loved the write..

There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..


author comment

I thought


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