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by Fyn
Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #2252274
In appreciation
The Gift

Murphy took the day off
and the Fates chortled:
dropping a muse
into my lap.
Didn't know I needed
a bright new shiny one;
the old, worn, and slightly shabby
one had served me well.
It, having been conveniently retired,
went off where tired muses go
to regroup or polished,
never looked back.

This new muse,
energetic and full of laughter
spun in dizzy circles:
grabbed hold and invited
me to dance. Nay insisted,
in the way muses do --choosing
new music to old songs.
Far above, Calliope shimmered
to the beat and thrummed
that the muse was muse to the muse.

Cyclic gift with no demand or expectation
of returned favors nonetheless
inspired or conspired same in reverse.
A circle complete but warped; twisted then
into infinity. Lemniscate of golden hues
infused with an iridescent spirit,
incandescent joy sparking new words.
Amused, the gods nodded their sage heads.
This, they had been awaiting for eons.

Each wrapped in a shimmering multitude
of layers, the muses danced shedding legends
and poetry, tales, and fables as they flew across
the ballroom of the galaxy. unlikely pairing,
but who is brave enough to argue with the gods?
And why? Symbiotic sharing feeds lost souls
and each feasts. Rare gift, this muse.
A brilliant light just beginning to shine
that one day will blind and then allow
others to see beyond the possible.

Some might call it magic; others might
miss the opportunity entirely in
their arrogance. Not I. I hear that voice,
still quiet in its forming, still not realizing
the sonic eruption it will form. Muse to me
for now. And yet, and yet, I can but hope
to cling to wispy threads as it rises. For it shall.
No gift to keep and hide away as if a mere treasure.
No gift to hold on to for its journeys will touch many.
Evolutions will see this muse rise to
epic heights. I shall watch with joy as it flies.

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