The poet searching in vain for a muse, lost

glazed, the opportunist struggle of the bacterium

can I dream? I can see but I cannot hear

the winds that whip through the strains,

The drains, the streams the run away from my deep well of

pain. Do I feel pain? Am I a programmed puppet,

They say a marionette feels most free being manipulated by their strings

The reason why Orpheus braved the underworld Yet could not find the strength to not turn To make a glance at Why must I differ? I suffer? I sent the desire of the day, dripping like a slow drip of melting wax

I long as a slippery cat in the alley as I sip the concentrated nectar of the night, so jewel indigo and green

Storms that haunt my heart

Storms that haunt

I'm so angry with myself for golden woes

For silver muses that churn storms into

Death.

——

A companion to this poem.