Secret Windows

(The poet to his muse)

I sit on the floor of this big empty house,
Lost in the lore of what is meant to be,
Through doorways that lead to vacant rooms,
I explore the entrance of a fantasy.

And there I see a window overlooking hers,
Alone in a room filled with artful fervidness,
It warms my soul, without flesh and bone,
The muse seems to dream in assertiveness.

I look closer

She sighs amidst aspirations and prying eyes,
As I long in the emptiness of the centuries,
Through these windows, dusty and old,
Her allure is something of misty memories.

I think I see her through another portal,
Like secret windows that peer into the soul,
But the words spoken are cryptic fictions,
As the house feels empty and getting cold.

I stand there pressed up against the pane,
Every word is an emotion yet silent still,
Watching the muse alone in her room,
Waiting with anticipation and thrill.

I’ve become a dream or some imagination,
Or something the muse has needed most,
But my words are written in secret windows,
In this big empty house I’ve become a ghost.