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[paperleaves]

in ascent to the moon, the dreams of the ancients
crowd the night sky.
I watch them, waiting, from a traincar at midnight,
swaddled in the chill of night's breath
and moonlight,
searching for my muse.
when a muse turns dangerous,
the poet suffers;
the words slink across barren synapse,
the ink burns every page, the memories
scurry from one moment
to another,
with no sense of consistency.
When one loses their muse,
the invocations grow stronger,
each barbaric yawp spanning across the universe,
yelping, wailing, yearning
to clasp its aura once again.

alone, I sit
watching the trees melt into the distance
as that moon fades away,
only to return again,
but only God knows when.



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Comments/feedback appreciated!

[everyadventure]

Someone has apparently been murdering the muses. Either that or they are all on sabbatical. I'll hope for the latter.

I especially liked the "chill of night's breath."

[V.Jayalakshmi]

yeh! I agree with you everyadventure.Perhaps the jarring imagery ( Contrast the yelping, wailing etc to the disappearing trees) is the reason.

[Bar22do]

What a pleasure to read your beautiful poetry again. You and Prince seem to "fado" Muse's estrangement, while - just read yourself!

"the words slink across barren synapse,
the ink burns every page, the memories
scurry from one moment
to another..."

In a way, I'm glad Mrs Muse went on vacation! Anxiety and longing spur art!

Good to see you on these pages again! (OO is promising...)

[Hawkman]

Hello Paper. Prince may have started a trend - lol. There is some great imagery here and I echo the sentiments of those who declare their pleasure at reading you again. You have captured the frustration of the curse and expressed it very poetically :D The only way to beat it is to work it to death!

Live and be well - H

[breathtest]

Paperleaves! I have really missed your poetry. This is beautiful, the idea that all these dreams and muses are out there thickly roaming around the sky is very nice, and the poet looks for her own muse amongst them. And the worry that the muse will never return in those last lines, 'only God knows when'. A testament to the fragility of inspiration.