The Gift of Afflatus

Often I had crossed her path. She had been on my mind; a natural beauty some might say. These thoughts of her came and went. Did she think of me, and if so, what was the meaning of this transcendence? With no voice to inspire me, all inner direction was lost. Restless visions materialized. My meditation grew weak. Unfinished poems I had thought had promise were discarded and I retreated. I breathed deeply, and in doing so, I tried to conjure up something to jot down, but she was too evasive to stir creative juices. Embattled for words, I had nothing to say. It was the height of frustration; an abrupt halt to what had just begun. I walked about lost in a fog of notions. Searching for something, what was it I sought? I remembered a postcard from long ago, a picture of a beautiful visage painted on a bridge made of stone. I had been stricken. A muse, who was she? A muse is a gift, is it not? Why was it that I could not make her my very own? Feminine, glowing, naked for all to see, I was sure she wouldn’t have minded helping me continue my novel’s journey. I waited under the pass and listened to the silence, a hollow echoing resonated and took on a foreboding and haunting mood. I left the tunnel in a scurried urgency. A lady I saw once on a granite arch came to me in a dream one night. An oak tree was present, sprouting from it were branches twisted and gnarled. An obscure figure appeared. Her body was painted pink, her hair raven. There she was seated, in between her legs the genus specie; what a presentation. I saw myself trekking towards her, what would I find? Why she beckoned me, I had no explanation. Then she cried, whispering something softly in my mind. She told me all her long-held secrets, grim and bright. A gift for you, she mused—you will recognize me in time. Now I patiently sit at my typewriter and write.