My muse is merely a word born of star-cross’d love many years removed. Vocalizations that flowed from a true apothecary’s drugs to a happy dagger’s sheath.
“O swear not by the moon, th’inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.”
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| "My muse is merely a word" |
An idiom spoken by young lips to prove days of sorrow could be banished with but a kiss. My thoughts wonder; "Could such a kiss exist? How shall such a meeting of flowered tulips be joined?" Surely it does not happen often, for the blooming of that flora is once a warm solstice day. As the time arrives shall I be branded a villain looking for a stolen prize within a garden or is it to be given with the intent never to injure thee? If only to prove what shall love be but friendship whispered into the cold breeze to be received as warmth from another. Or has Queen Mab taken visitation while I slept and in turn shown my heart's fate?
