I see his face, and I wonder,

“Is he my muse?”

I hear her voice, and I think,

“She could be my muse.”

My affection is reflected in ink,

But my heart questions it.


I face the mirror and I ask,

“What do you pour with your ink?

Is it love? Or is it pain?”

Either love or pain can move

My hands to create another.


But is it my muse?

Or is my ink its own muse,

Controlling my hands as its own.

Watching over and healing me,

as it needs be?



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