The Muse's Passing

The muse,

runs and stumbles,

as I overtake her,

I find that she has sunken into the ground,

death has stolen her light,

and empty fallen eye sockets

stare back.

I remember how she danced in me;

carrying my feet,

the full spirited thrusts of passionate movement,

all living within,

a fire burned.

daring the world to think that it could steal that light away...

daring everything with the vibrancy of soul shining...

and now I sigh,

and check my pocketbook,

wondering if today has been a good day.

so she lies there, a limp, dead, rag-doll,

resting on cold, dry ground.

waiting for me to exhale my passion,

into her dry-ing and broken shell

but, I have nothing.

I lack even the desire to be carried by such waves

moved to such heights,

and plunged to such deep, cold valleys.

I have been exhausted.

I have been exploited.

I have been embraced, carried so high

and dropped so swiftly

that I became that empty rag-doll-of-death-eye-sockets-staring.

tired, letting the earth carry me,

eat me, I do not care;

for the spirit has gone out of me for so long...

that the only art

that comes to me

speaks of the muse's passing.

of her absence

of the resounding emptiness left after she held residence here for so damn long.

the silence echoes off of the inside of my head,

a spider web,

that every thought presses against in the dark,

like a thread in the night on a naked leg, I cringe

remembering what this mind used to be like,

when passion was a warm cushion for each inspired thought,

that bounced around,

and leaped into flight,

soft young wings meeting the cool blue night.

now it is just broken cobwebs and silence.