Menace
My muse is a menace, she came uninvited, She made me write poems, my quill she ignited, No personal feelings, no borders acknowledged, My head she infected with blasphemous knowledge. She plays broken lyre, untuned into noises, Of souls burning slowly a million of voices. I ask her to stop, she agrees for a moment, Then makes me write blasphemy shaped as a sonnet. She gives me a quill, tells me “This is so urgent”, While painting the portraits of Dante and Virgil. “Ars longa”, she says; “Vita brevis”, I answer, To quit writing process she leaves me no chances. My muse is my critic, my judge, my garroter, Her words—asphyxiation, my throat to throttle. I give her my poem, the best I can offer, She reads it and says: “You’re a talentless author”. My muse is a menace, she smirks in reflection, She smiles with expression of my own projection. “Be muse to yourself”, she has whispered in silence, To seal the agreement, poetic alliance.