The Muse

He falls upon me as a thief in the night, releasing me from my prison where I hang upon my cross of sticks. I spring to life in my Master’s hands as he gently straightens my strings and sets my feet, lightly on the ground. And though I am still bound, I am free. I am free to do that which I was created for; to be the intangible life that is always just beyond my reach as I hang lifeless in my dark cupboard always hopeful for my Master to come and set me free.

Suspended in the void, I dream of my life upon the stage. I recall the joy on the faces of the audience, captivated by the beauty of my costume, and the grace of my dance, mesmerized by the truth of my story and wit in my song as I stare blankly and know they truly love the one who pulls my strings. Content in my hollow purpose to convey the story imagined by my Creator in hope that one will be moved to act upon the passion stirred within the heart to be greater, wiser, better, simply because of the message from the muse.

Yet the stage light can not remove the shadow of sadness that persists due to my time in the dark. It is the life I live that no one can see as the the days, the years, slip past. My costume decays and my wooden head knocks against the wall of my coffin as I stare into the inky blackness that is my home. The longer I exist the more I question my purpose, the less I feel inclined to hang upon the cross I am bound to hand and foot as I dream of a fire that would set me free.