I look, high and low. Where has she gone?

She is the fate that touched him deep enough to make his words bleed on paper.

The one who believed in him when he needed.

Maybe I cannot see her because I cannot feel her touch as he does.

Or maybe too many voices have created  a barrier, hindering her song from reaching his ear, his soul.

As an onlooker in the crowd, I sat eagerly awaiting his next word.

I watched. He seemed alone. Not even looking for his muse. From my view at least.

Working my way out of the audience I ask “Where is your muse?”

He does not hear me.

Tears fall down my cheeks as I consider maybe he never had a muse.

Whatever the answer may be…

I pray his words be drawn from his soul and bleed upon the paper again.

If Bill Jones, Jr ceases to write, this world will be robbed.

They may never get the chance to know they were robbed.