Song of Reprieve

Writers look for a muse,
I only search for my own voice,
Timid and trembling,
Crouching behind the curtains of silent doubt.

If music ceased to weave blankets
Around the fissures of my wounded soul,
If brushstrokes from the past
Failed to paint a smile on my face,

No personal versions of Maud Gonne would suffice.
The sealing seam of hope would then split open,
Bleeding a river of blue songs,
From an old, discarded shadow that used to be me.