Muse

I have read him a thousand times
He is a man who does not care for rhyme

Yet his words melt into one another
Like chocolat oozing over mountains
Or soft eggs meeting soldiers 
On a sleepy Sunday morning

I look for a reason
He tells me not to pander ~
The masses will never be happy
He says I should write what I know

Delve into my soul
Paint the flowers 
That in my garden grow

I should not seek validation
From those who could never
Understand 

My eyes throw shadows 
At him
He refuses to say
That which I yearn to hear

I will read him again
But I know
His answer will always
Be the same.
Clare Kinnaird, 2024.