Dear Calliope

I hear your fingers scrape on the walls at night.  They write an ancient song of haunts heard in my soul as a melodious and macabre message.  It is born as a dream with vipers and angels.  How can I dwell in that lair your whispers built where I must feel the pain bled by other souls?  You never grant me pardon from their cries, nor spare my sleep the wanderings among the crypts of martyred minds.

 

Today I tried to escape your spell.  Went to the park in hopes the pastoral sway would silence that power you thrum over my thoughts.  But you possessed my eyes until I saw a discarded life in his tattered clothes, sleeping underneath a bush.  You nailed that image into my heart as it flowed into my head.  It wouldn’t leave until I surrendered my hands and you preserved that image, touching me with waves of the depression and sorrow that you made me feel radiate from that life.

 

There’s no refuge from your presence, no oasis far away from how you have captured my essence.  For I am your prisoner, a body bent to obey, every succumbing to that torturous charm, which you hold over my life.

 

It consumes me, for you are a succubus who drains me of ignorance.  And the nymph that lures me into discovering every tear, prayer, praise and passion residing below the flesh façades.  How your siren spell overpowers until I can’t remain a virgin to love’s flame, who is able to dwell content without the burn of its fire.

 

Now I am a quill vagabond and hopeless nomad led by your wispy winds.  Unable to sit any longer and stay oblivious to each gesture you weave over my senses.  I have become a miserable waif of verse who can’t live unless you are feeding me of your ambrosia in light.

 

Perhaps some day again I shall know the bliss of being blind to what you show me.  Have a chance to avoid seeing hideousness and beauty below the many terraces of time.  Until then shall I remain this wretched pen who can’t thrive unless your push me where you lure me to visit, regardless of the agony or pleasure it provides.

Callope – muse of epic poetry