Not a muse

 

Conversations were flowing, 

like that pretty river. 

Emotions gushing out, 

like water past the rocks. 

The words were animate, 

there was no effort. 

The smiles were real, 

no pretension either side. 

All of a sudden, she asks, 

perhaps hurtingly, 

"Am I a muse ?"

"For the moment?"

There was silence. 

Am I that guy ?

The pretty river imploded, 

The water now crushing the rocks. 

The past came screaming back, 

Was I that guy ?

Thou,  are not a muse, 

A fountainhead rather, 

creating solemn verses. 

A bubble of energy, 

positive and bright. 

A Zen master rather, 

disguised as a queen. 

Thou, are not a muse.