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Some Muses Leave Bruises


I have long been fascinated by the
myths of the muses
Those delicate daughters of deity,
draped in diaphanous dress,
whispering words of ecstasy and epiphany
into the eager ears of poets and painters,
but I have found no such fairy
to fan to flame the creative spark.
That does not mean, however,
that I am left alone without an
intermediary of insight and inspiration
On the contrary, I am well served
in that respect, it’s just
that he's not all that pretty
In fact, I was insistent upon our introduction
that some fatal faux pas had befallen me
“A grievous error has occurred”, I explained
as I stared into his wizened face, framed
by a wild and grizzled mane
“I believe I will be leaving,”
I spoke and spun to go
“Very well,” he said
his voice a rasp and rumble
“if that is what you wish. However,
before you make another mistake
perhaps you could take
a look at what I have here.”
He unfurled the fingers of his left fist
and I gazed upon the agent of a gentle glow
nestled in his plentiful palm
It sang, soundlessly the answers to questions
that had stolen sleep and crippled creativity
No, he was not like the nubile nymphs of renown
but he did possess the prize of my pursuit
“Is this,” he asked,” what you so desperately sought?”
The inspiration pulsed iridescent in his palm
scratching age-old itches in my brain
“Yes, yes, yes!” I yelled, my yearning unyielding
“May I please have it?” my fingers approaching his
“Absolutely” he smiled and then his fingers snapped shut
“Wrestle me for it. If you can take it, it's yours.”

I did, that day
and many since
I leave from him battered, buffeted and bruised,
whipped and worn out
strained and scarred,
but inspired.


-- Sean H., Adult