Muse On A Tightrope

Muse On A Tightrope

You inspire me, little muse.

With a girlish voice that
delivers a woman’s words,
you make me want to try.

I hear you, little muse.

The sharpness in the push
of your pencil on my skin,
opens me wide, and
the blood in the script
sprays my face with a
sticky heat that
I don’t understand.

I envy you, little muse.

You, with all the simple,
yet beautiful logic that
we seek to possess,
seem ungrateful of
the power that your
words inherit.

You dismiss that which
makes you worthy of
sing-song praises and
breathy, green sighs.

You wave your hand,
to make it all disappear,
but you do it slowly.
There is hesitation in the
gesture, an unwillingness
to commit to your own
renunciation.

A part of you accepts
your divinity,
but you teeter on the
thread that holds it together,
finding comfort in
proclaiming your own
unsteadiness.

No one will expect you
to make it to the other side,
if you make it clear
that you will fall.
No pretty, ruffled parasol
will ever hold you up.

No, you say, it’s better
to cower in the corner,
than try to walk the line.
In that corner, the bloodletting
will be the art of your own design.

Your timidity
embarrasses me,
little muse.