They cry out for me as to a god,
As though creation is external.
Do not, dear mortals, be over-awed
For heads unfit still wear the laurel.
"Calliope!" My name has grown vast
Beyond the edges of my own ken.
The romance of myth, of ages past
Of what once was and what might have been.
Story itself has christened me 'muse'
And has thrust upon me this burden
Of inspiration, the spark and fuse.
What of the path that I determine?
For I was a mother long ago
And bore a son of most brilliant light.
I taught him words of strength - my sorrow!
For my lesson brought this lasting night.
The beauty of his words laid him low
Torn apart by jealousy and hate.
That was the harvest of my furrow!
What cruel twist - this irony of fate.
Muse, oh Muse! They exalt me on high,
Begging, pleading for a spark of grace.
For words they live, but by words they die
And leave forever mother's embrace
So call not to muses nor idols nor gods;
Rather look within for the path yet untrod.
Thanks everyone for reading my blog. I'm never really sure how what I write will be received, but I appreciate all of the encouragement I've been getting so far! Please keep reading and I promise there won't be too much in the way of archaic poetry (well... I say promise...)