The Muse



I tape quills to the underside of each forearm

In order to simulate flight

My heart serves as both inkwell and millstone

Depending on the proximity of my muse

There is no catharsis in withdraw

Only the dissemination of sorrow

Through undignified outlets, namely

Crying when one is fearful of sleep

When in company my muse surreptitiously plucks

The numerals from every clock within visual range

That I might remain indefinite in confinement

She is the residue of every lunar passage

Since the dawn of my existence

She translates my failings into wisdom

There is no drug more permissive than poetry

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