Unhappy is the Muse, Melpomene …
so I must stoop, her graces to implore.
In dream she wears the face of tragedy,
and moans to me to Raise the pen once more
and write, and try to write, and writing write,
ere your grasp of poetry should flee.
She assigns such burden through the night,
and then at dawn demands yet more of me
to cipher—no, it’s more—it’s alchemy
the Muse demands, no meager sonnet verse,
but magic on the page, she helps me see.
When I awake her spell, I’ve made my choice,
and vow to comply, if only she
unchain my poet soul—set me free!
