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"?

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