When the Muses Leave...

When the muses leave, what is left but silence?

The abysmal comfort, the unending sleep-

when the muse leaves where I go to find it?

With what rapture, what song-

may I sing now in the day that lasts too long?

To wait is a skill only to the cursed;

to those the muses have left,

I say call early their hearse.

In what waters do they swim, the fish unsleeping?

In what springs could I hold them once more?-

to set my heart again a'weeping?

No matter the dream and lack of sound,

perhaps we make our own music, that we may love what was found.

In masks do they hide, perhaps in mirrored eyes-

the muses flee the soul too content,

too soft to repent;

When the muses leave, the poet dies once more,

bound to live chained to glory,

bound to forever ask "what for"?

2 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

The wanderer, the seeker All are all the weaker For they fail to see the world’s telling brand The simple sound of one hand….

I wonder, I wonder If in the depths of our slumber, We ever dream to cease our ceaseless number. Perhaps our questions are naught but answers, Perhaps answers are naught but questions, Our pride is pr

I am scratched and itched, and old and young; I am the red greened apples, And love high-strung. There can be no words that pump as the heart does; Flesh and Fire, The forge of God's young.