echoing inside my head.
Those kindred thoughts of being wed
until another death doth do us part.
As if the muse had never had a heart.
That is when the hammering begins.
They empty the sarcophagus of pain.
Just then another muse begins to sing
of flowing through the vagaries of spring.
And everything begins to change again.
While something deep inside remains the same.
Reaching past that cosmic apathy.
Unknowingly providing sympathy.
To know it isn't real and yet
to find another vision set.
Opening to distant avenues.
Feeling ancient air becoming new.
The void is full of all too many things.
An emptiness that yields gatherings.
An awesome feel of great imagining.
That only an acceptance of
the difference can bring.
The muses, they work overtime for free.
You only have to let them in, you see.
The hardest part is letting go.
And living through the echoes
of the night...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2005 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .