The Muse
I am already here. Standing in this white field,
waiting as I received news of your coming;
I anticipate with fear. Sometimes in howls
I hear your prayers. In birds, your love
whisper promises; surreal and unreal.

The heavy foliage carried, I watch them fall in slow
moments, floating and drifting forever in a grey between.
Seven winters has sculpted me like clay- Thunder
hallow heart, wind bends posture, clouds trap
mind with wicked child-like disasters. Vines and
masked puppets hang on my shoulders like bad jewelry.

I wait, I wait, I wait, I wait. I wait.
This blind familiarity greets me everyday with
such strange strange strange strange faith.
I wait and I watch and I wait. This sick cycle carousel
inspires and drives this natural machine
to watch the whimpering distance
anxiously, violently, silently, hopelessly.

Tomorrow. Maybe she'll be here tomorrow.