Muse

I know the fashion 

is to keep a beautiful 

young girl

in a tower

but I have never liked

beautiful young girls.

I will take the morning star

instead 

long cast down from the sky

suffering beside me in the clay

and dust

to light the fuse of my

imagination, to rekindle

my creative fire

I take up the anger and horror

of today’s events and hammer them

on the forge of the afternoon 

pulling out red-gold chains

made with our broken nails

with our blood

and weaving them together 

what good would anyone else

be to me, my muse

with their disdain

and their delicate hands?

I have spent too long

in the realm of the dead

in the pit of barathrum 

to let the rest of the world decide 

how I should 

rule my heart

so much the better

if we are no longer young

my hair is turning over

white strands

as I grow into my power

and you have only to look 

about you to see 

that being cast out 

from heaven 

has cost you nothing