The Problem with Muses

Rarely is a muse 

An amusing thing.

They’re planes in the sky 

stretching in vain to become 

Shooting stars or the 

five impossible things 

we believe before breakfast. 

They’re deep wells, steady

Until you brush their surface,

Endless, until your lungs 

Become the buckets 

they needed 

for their own survival.

They’re nothing like what 

You expect them to be. 

Their radiant feathers? 

Stolen from the sun and 

the optic nerves and 

The truth of prisms. 

But the chemistry of pain 

Is two parts analogy 

One part metaphor 

And seventeen syllables 

Of economics, cost vs benefit. 

It’s poisonous, though.

Leaving you questioning

The means when it ends. 

When the ends are

Meaningless and 

They’re written like a salve 

A principle of gifting 

You hadn’t experienced yet, 

that defies the laws of physics. 

When they’re nothing like what 

You expect them to be 

their plumage humble, 

Gathered during nightfall

With consent from the 

Eyes of the forest. 

When their waters 

push and pull and 

Fill you with the slight

Sting of the ocean breeze

Their salts wanting nothing 

More than to keep you afloat.

When the moon returns 

From it’s trip around the earth

capable of so much more 

Than it’s given credit for, 

A Cheshire grin the sky… 

The sound of laughter 

Is so delicately placed 

Upon characters.

Soft consonants 

Become harder… 

Until it ends.