Those of us destined for greatness
manifest our work through a muse
mine, as such, is our goddess Calliope.

Golden horn, papyrus parchment
I like to place my ever-growing delusions
into stories about us
you are my muse and even more significant than Calliope

Have you ever noticed
the gentle sighs of a loved one
are not ever disapproving, vexed, or perturbed
but breaks in moments cherished
a Cheshire chin, calling Calliope

Carving you into Parnassus
immortality reigned, and snow-covered tips
threw all your dirty laundry on verse and melody
trapped forever, writing my masters
you carrow, fornicate, and beg
my imprisoned Calliope

I am your master
your sorrowful hidden prayers
will inevitably erode on the Mountain Edge
you do your best to hide your pain and pity
conduits cradle your curiosities of cheek
I hear you speak of freedom – bellbird caged in ornate 19th Century iron
I am not done with you yet, my dearest Calliope.

Featured The Muses Urania and Calliope by Simon Vouet. Image held in the public domain via Wikimedia.


In a dream, you saw a way to survive, and you were filled with joy.


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