She woke up to poems, in her mind constantly. Like a constant song in the back of her head, playing relentlessly. She looked out the window and thought about the way the sun glistened through, the way the birds sang as the sun rose and savored the fresh morning air filtering through the window. She gazed at the man she loves lay peacefully next to her, the sun tracing his faces silhouette. He looked peaceful and dreamy. To her, a glimpse of perfection touching the earth. Lost in the awe of life around her. Her mind raced with words, constant melody of flowing poetry. Romanticizing the smallest moments and enriching the most mundane views. To her, everything was existential. From a half blown dandelion to a rain drop flowing down a window. She saw beauty in just about everything, but never romanticized herself. In love with the world that surrounded her all the while dismissing her own existence.
She, the writer.
The world, her muse.


© wolfepoetry