Muse

Muse

She has the eyes of a widow, and the hopes of a child.
She has the sigh of a window as it's opened in the rain.
She is the lapse in the heartbeat and the falter of a smile,
she is the love that's in the body and the beauty in the pain.

She has the wisdom of a beggar and the posture of a priest.
She has the teardrops of an angel, wept for all humanity.
She is the carving on the casket and the teller of all tales,
she is the hate that's in the heart ache and the faith that's in the free.

And never ever has she held on any longer than she needs
like a sappling in the maelstrom, turns wherever the wind leads
heading further from her teathers
like a panther that's set free
running rampant through the lyrics, of our woeful melodies.

She is the laughter of a wine glass that's been smashed against he floor.
Spinning cobwebs in our spirits,
all the lost souls beg for more,
fueling on the illusion
that she can heal if we implore.

She has the promise of a salesman and the beauty of the fair.
She has a whisper like the sandman as he moves us into sleep.
She's the glinting of the sickle and the swishing of the scythe,
she is the glory of a sunrise and the terror from the deep.

She has the accent of a lady and the language of a lord.
She has the footsteps of an acorn as it hits the forest floor.
She is the breeze that's in the pasture and the storm that's in the sea,
she is the ticking of your time bomb and the reaper at your door.