A dilemma of delights:
To wake to your lover cradling or cradled,
Body beautiful beside you,
To caress and kiss to drowsy waking,
And slow morning lust.
To find your dreams directed,
At your muse’s ardent attentions,
Until sleep merges into conscious passion,
Irresistible desire melding you together.
– – –
Except of course, the dilemma is only an apparent one, and before the event, for lo the solution is presented automatically when chance dictates which partner wakes first.
I see her in my mind, imagine the feel of her, her docile but eager touch. I know her curves, her smile, her burning eyes, the sighs and moans and gasps.
Always when I write she is with me, telling me what she wants, showing me action and reaction. As I channel her presence the pieces seem to write themselves, truer than anything with conscious direction.
Though we authors dream in fire and write in clay, the burning inspiration rings clear from the page and screen; when muse-fed, daemon-ridden, in thrall to her passion and that it generates in me. She reaps what I sow, harvesting the verbal seed I thrust towards her, accepting it wherever it falls, taking it into herself, powering her fantasies, her self-fulfilment – to be retold to me, or listened to live, or pictorially preserved and presented, further fuel for my lust, and its linguistic expression.
I am her scribe, she is my muse. Within this dynamic faithful to our shared purpose: satisfied sexual desire – no matter the wait for consummation.
A magic muse,
I dream within her web of words,
Her image-laden seduction,
Her response a spur to my endeavour,
My reward, her greatest of favour.
– – –
The picture was sent to me by a completely lovely young lady, and seemed to match the subject matter well.
My thanks as ever for such a beautiful offering to aid my work.