The Tenth Muse

From earthen depths, past layered-aeon streaks-
Out from a time beyond imagined grace-
The beast within me rears her head and shrieks,
For too long chained, a dark, forgotten face,
She tries, on sliding shale, to climb the peaks.

Ask Sysiphus who burdened him with stone
Of restless nights and endless near-successes-
On-driven, ever-striving, and alone-
Of all-consuming passion for caresses
Of soft and knowing pen, and paper's moan.

The heart's unsteady for this sort of play,
Yet rising like a symphony above
My tiny mind, the dawning of the day
Cannot be known by aught but swelling love;
For as dispassion looms, the dreams decay.

So here beneath the trapdoor of my thought
A tortured voice will howl upon the winds;
Of all the things my good intentions wrought,
They never had the strength that her sound lends:
Desperation- gathered, woven, caught.

--Megan Morris, meikundayo@yahoo.com