Muse

taken from the cover of
Sharpe's Company  

Those that critique my stories comment how death is prevalent in my writing.  I was beginning to think something was wrong with me, but perhaps my Muse is the problem.  This poem was the product of my examination of the issue.

Ode to A Continually Dying Muse
I want to write
like C.S. Lewis wrote,
to make phrases come alive,
and tell more than just words.
I want to craft a poem
studied in classes a hundred years from now
like Shelley and Browning
and those Bronte girls.
 I'd write something so magnificent
                                         if I only had a muse
                                         that whispered lines and rhymes
                                         soft in my ear.
                                         Or maybe just a picture
                                         of a muse would do---
                                         in which case
                                         I'd hang Sean Bean on my screen
                                         and inspire words anew.
                                         I doubt he'd be offended.
                                         I'm sure he's used to it by now.
                                         But if Sean's my muse
                                         then that explains why
                                         in my stories someone always
                                         seems to die. 
                                       
What inspires your writing?  What inspires your life? 

Note: I own the picture, but not the man--sigh--though I heard a rumor he might be available---again. Which brings up one final question--do you own your muse, or does your muse own you?