Thursday, March 13

The Muse

The muse disappeared last night,
lost himself in a forest of sinew and muscle,
worked his way into the meat of a core compelled.

He roams amidst the others, gray faces, damp clouds,
holding court with decaying illusions
and constant children aging only into adolescence.

Mercurial apparitions dominate this house,
shapes of strange geometry, 
ethereal sound, 
misspent chances.

The muse lacks enchantment, now,
and the empty heart of the universe howls.

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