My Muse Is Gone

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My muse has gone
Alone, I cradle souvenirs
Her phantom dances in the songs
That haunt my ever-waking dreams
Against the vacant beckoning
I hold a tired candle light
A vigil of my sanity
For memories
Of fantasies
And better things

My muse has gone
And, in the absence of my tears
The shadows, in a desperate throng
Are clinging tight beneath my eyes
I harbor them–my dark disguise
A mask across my empty face
Expressionless
Impressions of
This cold embrace

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41 responses to “My Muse Is Gone

  1. Wow, this post seems very timely all things considered, doesn’t it…? Wonderful writing as always VW and let me tell you, even if your muse has gone for the time being, it diminishes nothing from your artistic renderings.

    You are a master with words and I wish you always to be inspired and continue with the fervor you’ve shown since creating your blog πŸ™‚

    Glad to have you back my friend!

    • Your compliments are humbling and beautiful. This poem has been timely for some time now, and my realm reveals the vast tracts of distance with the lack of writing. It is easy to follow the history of published posts and find where I feel close and where I feel far. Thank you so much for your lovely support, my friend

  2. Poetic…your words already attract me, like a muse…..
    and sublime emotions you carry along the lines….

  3. VW, you pack such an intensity of emotions in a few, very beautifully crafted, lines. Excellent portrayal. I loved reading it, yet ached with the emotion. Great poem!

  4. A wonderful description of wanting,
    needing, yearning that lost emotion
    in an expression of a lonely heart…

    Do have a nice start to
    your week Vampire Weather…

    Androgoth

  5. What if you could bring her back though? Maybe not in uncontrollable dreams. Maybe not physically, but mentally. What if you could meditate so hard you could bring her to the room with you? Perhaps I’m crazy, and you probably would be, too. But what if you could trade sanity for one more day. And perhaps, as kindred spirits, if she did the same thing your minds would be along the same path and it will be a connection far more powerful than the physical. And maybe it will be a bit physical – mentally of course. πŸ˜‰ I was trying this as I woke up this morning with a poem, Skin, on my mind. I do think it might be of use to you. Even if you would be a little crazy. πŸ™‚

    • I have been a little crazy for a long time. The thought is beyond familiar. She returns when she wishes, and in her absence I await her presence once again. Not the physical, necessarily, but much more powerful is simply the presence of the spirit. A muse is a difficult thing to find and an even more difficult thing to keep. When she is here, the poems will come more often I should think πŸ™‚

      • Tell me about the last time your muse was in your mind with you, please? when will you be with her again?

      • She is always in my mind, and I have found no exception to that. I feel her presence when she is near. It is not that of a being, perhaps, but an idea. A concept. Perhaps the concept of love. An embodiment of a longing my heart cannot describe and my mind does not understand. And yet, it is not an idea, it is a person. I cannot say when I will be with her again in a physical sense, but this poem was not about that so much as the feeling of absence in an emotional or mental sense. The distance between bodies is often not as severe in its toll as the distance between souls. Souls can bridge the distance that bodies cannot, and my soul longs for hers more than my body. I feel I am rambling, but you have asked me to explain a thing I am struggling to put into words πŸ™‚

        May I ask why you ask?

  6. VW, I can truly relate to this – my muse has left me so many times it has frequent flier miles! But even without your muse, you’ve STILL written a most eloquent poem. Methinks your muse is closer than you know. πŸ™‚

  7. in a world of dark and light
    some run away lost in fright
    others think its worth the fight
    while others just sit tight
    your words speak for many I think
    as I read I tried not to blink
    for even as I sat here to think
    you wrote a story that was to close to my kitchen sink!

    ( sorry) I am not sure there are any mortal words to describe’
    what energy I felt as i read this…
    I think tonight I shall wander back into the realm of my Dragon Magick…
    and think…no just feel what they have to say…

    other than WOW

    Take care…
    )0(
    ladybluerose

    • Thank you for sharing that wonderful rhyme! A realm of dragon magick is an unusual thing to have, and it sounds like a glorious retreat indeed. I hope you occasionally find my words close to your kitchen sink again. To express and be acknowledged and perhaps even a bit understood is a special reward πŸ™‚

      • you are very welcomed…
        I am enjoying wandering through your thoughts within…very powerful energy I might add… as for the dragon magick… it is seeping all through your pages here…surely you know that?
        to acknowledge ones thoughts into words is to affirm that we matter…
        long ago seeds we did scatter
        as each moment evolves into the next,
        we learn to accept
        those seeds sprout from within the dark
        where silence is so utterly stark
        reaching up into the music of the night
        where life evolves into sight
        each seed is a piece of our life’s puzzle
        worth the hunt and the struggle
        where light and dark balance as we juggle
        each emotion into thought into each word,
        hoping just to be heard

        )0(

      • You have quite a magical imagination, my friend, and your words are warming. Thank you for taking time to share yourself and express your thoughts here. It is a pleasure to have you! πŸ™‚

  8. If your muse is gone, then how could you possibly write such a powerful poem? I am an old man, at this point, and I can say only one thing about the muses. When they sing electric into your blood and lightning streaks through dark skies like banshees dancing with the clouds, then poetry leaps through eyes onto the page. When they have gone into hiding and the shadows dance until the mind screams with absence, then the best thing to be done is to court them, as you have done so ably here, by sitting down and letting one halting word cringe onto the page after another. For some reason some really good poems are made out of air and shadows painfully wrought. Inevitably, if sometimes slowly, such efforts stir up the muse again, and again your blood and thoughts crash down a run of boulders in a white froth that spins rainbows into the air. I cannot say that I have ever been without a muse, though they seem to be gone sometimes, and I don’t believe Ethel has either, although she says, sometimes, that she does not know if she will ever have another idea from another poem. This is a really fine poem written from shadow with the light of words that communicate a feeling that every artist who has ever lived has lived.

  9. VW, truthfully, I don’t think I can ever believe your muse is absent, for even without her, your words are stunning and thought provoking~I speak only with utter sincerity, as your poetry is such that I wish could come from my muse! πŸ™‚

    • You are very kind, Lauren. It is a difficult road to create without cause (at least without the sensation of cause in the heart) and I appreciate you looking past that to see my words πŸ™‚

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