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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The only way to beat it is to work it to death!
