Condemning her would be unfair
But appreciation takes effort
Things were easy
Once the long cold blade went in
With it came detached acceptance
No dreams to realize
No cross to bear
No amends to make
Just a thankfully few more ragged breaths
As she pulls it clear and coaxes
The torn heart’s struggle
What surges from the gaping wound
Beat by beat
Is neither essence nor effect
But more like a compelling memory
Of what couldn’t be recalled
Now and then captured
If only to tell the story
That the flow goes on
Much is said of the inspiration brought about by the muse.
But isn’t the best muse the most painful, the one most out of reach, the better to inspire unendingly?
One doesn’t realize the dream of becoming one with one’s muse, lest the entire muse relationship vanish.
The passion is aroused never to be released, but to instead turn inward, inflicting art and destruction.
So the muse wounds.
Why isn’t more said of those who treat the wounds and perform the debridement? (What a fitting word!)
The answer may be that one becomes more attached to one’s muse than to oneself.
In that case, poetry is for addicts.