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I Think My Muses Are Dying
I think my muses are dying. The cuts that bled out the poetry I always managed to put on paper
have healed. The tapestry of folklore I once had the courage to weave into a garment is now used
to make the curtains that I hold to peer into the realities that aren’t mine.
I think my muses are dying. I often write letters to figments unbeknownst to me; the Moon, the
stars, and the emotions I feel in my bones that I fail to find words for. But what do I do when
they refuse to write back? Do I host a bonfire where I recite my most flowery and pretentious
verses and hope I will be applauded for them? Or do I just fly to the depths of the sky or my
ribcage for answers and hopefully manuscripts.
I think my muses are dying. There’s a shadow playing a soft piano ballad in the distance. Its
fingers are becoming sore as it plays the same chords again and again, and the absorbed light that
creates his body is slowly fading into thin air. His head, his legs, his torso, his arms. But not the
hands that keep playing the same chords, faster and defter. It’s as if it’s signaling to me that using
the same words will slowly make me lose more of myself and massacre the muse that one sat on
my shoulder as I wrote my best poems.
I think my muses are dying. I reminisce about the days where I wasn’t desensitized to the idea of
art. I often choked on the irony of the phrase “Art comforts the disturbed and disturbs the
comforted.” How is it that man has the power to comfort and disturb without using brute force?
How did I once with the help of misery and fury comfort those who were musing alongside me?
Unfortunately, as I am now devoid of any comfort and without it how can I muse about dreadful
things. I think this pen is slowly repelling from me, and refusing to induce the bursts of energy
that brought poems to life.
I think my muses are dying. As the globe closes on me and is tightened around my soul, the
muse sets off to the streetlights. But for light, or pretentious symbolism is a question that I fail to
answer. It goes into the flower garden, gets pierced by the thorn but keeps the rose for display.
I think my muses have died. The curtains have closed, my cue has passed, and the page is blank.