It lived
in Egypt, as found in Greece, as rumored in Africa; this infernal mischief,
rooted in fire, where often it’s pleasant. We fathom deaths, this surge of
poets, drowning our essence in breath; this inner feud, this vacant love, this
choice to choose a mystic; this muse of life, dying as we dwell, in a pit of
illusions. I’m charmed to love—broken in fragments, each a piece of this
trauma; to perish thrice, a product of twenty five scars, a man estranged from
his family. I pledge this tear, to a man named, Homer, sealed in revelations;
while course as mythic, as churned as truths, to fall where heaven retreats;
that fatal cry, as forsaken souls, nailed where she last kissed. I’m screaming
silence, whereat, are vultures, a prison filled with trying souls; as carved in
madness, our mothers forsaken, our fathers trekking through hells; to die this
lose, a child with a cross, cleaving to this potent mystery. It lived in
France, as found in Germany, as rumored by Danes. I truly see, this need for
words, in love as bent on madness; to court a queen, to crown delusion, a man
desperate to see: those crooked turns, those reckoned cries, that too distant
closeness; as mere a tear, our mothers preaching, where harmony is mere
patience: as years would turn, to die alone, as one waiting for an un-posted
letter. I’ve died this muse, heavy a throttle, to finally retreat as defeated.
It lived in Rome, as founded in Bethesda, as rumored in Persia; this flagrant
angst, this deep anxiety, this woman too proud to love; as shattered frames, or
spoken mirrors, this flight we must run. We’ve beckoned souls, this life of
muses, to finally touch flesh; as more for hopeless, this enchanted bar, as
evolved as belly dancers. It couldn’t be pain, as renowned with praise, our
days yearning for mystics; to find that one, as to woo nightfall, where hell
morphs into a siren. We’ve claimed this art, struggling with words, as destined
to be without: that terror love; that vapid anger; that woman too proud to
love.
