The Muses

You goad me to my words...

the broken poet...

you...ye...yeah...

don't turn round to see

whom I am speaking too...

ye muses, all...

all of you conduct my spirit

to its light or darkness...

I press each word and fold it...

so tightly,

in this heart of thorns,

as you laugh...

so wildly...

abandoned of any care on earth...

the countless little hurts,

you have collected,

as the produce of your work...

here...

on this petting zoo of traps,

where you, our master's,

put on all your acts...

to wallow in our pain...

to suffer us, our shame...

for your entertainment...

one day it rains...

next day it shines,

we are bored...

let us have a day...so torn,

of their misery...

we can feel again...

we god's...

we...created them...

why not, pull their chains?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016  Deming, New Mexico

Art: Apollo and The Muses, by John Singer Sargent