Posted in Prose


Today, your hair was silver with a touch of brown sprinkled in it.  Your eyes are blue.  We watched as that old woman patched another hole in her ragged doll’s dress.

But I remember the day that I saw you as a blonde Imp.  With your devilish ways, you convinced me to bludgeon that horrible man to death.  Your reasons were quite convincing, and you were right.  He deserved it.

Once you were that shy school girl with her first heartbreaking crush.  The next day you were the addicted junkie, looking for a fix.

You talked me into holding on to the edge of the cliff, though I wanted more than anything, to throw myself into the volcano.   You’ve pulled me from the depths of despair, but watched callously, while my soul struggled with the blackness of depression.

One day, you’re the virile, lusty devil, playing with my heart.  You allow my spirits to soar to the heavens on the wings of desire and happiness.  The next, you pull the rug away allowing my anguish to come crashing down upon me.

What will tomorrow bring?  Will you, my muse, take me on a wild, hair-raising adventure, or will we do a slow waltz?  Shall we spin yarns of light and fantasy or do you crave something darker?

You have my devotion and my passion.  You also have my loathing.  I want you, but I also resent the need for you.

My muse! My muse!  Delight me once again!  Make my fingers dance across the keyboard!  I wish to spin tales and rhymes of wonder and amazement!

Copyright © 2018 Penny Wilson


Penny Wilson is a freelance writer who writes in several genres. She has written articles for WOW Women on Writing. Her poetry has been published in online journals, such as Ariel Chart, Spill Words Press and the Poppy Road Review. Penny is a member of the Austin Poetry Society. Her poetry has been featured in the publication America's Emerging Poets 2018 & 2019 by Z Publishing, Poets Quarterly and Dual Coast Magazine published by Prolific Press. You can find more of her writings on her blog at and follow her on Twitter @pennywilson123.

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