Murdered Muse

At times my spirit wonders at
my murdered Muse, (in)secure
in her six foot crepe; gag mouldering
these many years as it crumbles,
long past its days of usefulness.

And who would strangle such a beast?

Rattling chains forever in the strobe light night,
hands eternally grasping, lips upon my ear
whispering, whispering, interrupting dreams
incessant with her myriad demands, thrusting
pen into my feverish fingers, robbing sanity,
smoke and mirrors brandishing a false bravado

"You are NOTHING without me"....

and I, like any supplicant, obeyed. Until the
wakefulness made prisms of my eyes, unable
to separate fact from lies, sentences dripping
guile, and all the while she plied my brain
for her inevitable feast, supping at my
groaning board; she claimed herself the chef

and I the one to wield the carving knife

that sent the vengeful muse into her grave,
the poseur rightful vanquished, and I, saved.


Read more: http://www.myspace.com/ninelivesandmore/blog#ixzz0wcJWCc25