In moments daring,
her heart shown through her breast,
a rapid rhythm that if she confessed,
held more inside its chambers than he knew,
in every moment,
every breath she drew,
some shred of hope that if he saw her there,
he’d understand that no love could compare,
and save her from her anguish and her need,
his hand, the touch to stop her slow soul bleed,
for there was not another man on earth,
who knew her as he did or of her worth,
who made the others easy to refuse,
but who then was the Poet
and who the Muse?
Happy World Poetry Day !