To My Muse Aphrodite
Darft_1
By: Chase L. Currie
My muse scolds me for being away too
long.
I
let the dancing bears call me to the center, I sing with the wolf in the throes
of blood lust by the light of a full moon and I compare scars with the Lizard
King over a cup of tea.
She
beckons me to take her by the hand – she wishes to show me something new, but I
rip my hand away from her saying:
The last time I took your hand, you
gave me wings of wax and asked me to kiss the sun. But you never told me I
would get burnt when I did. You let me fall and on the way down I played
hopscotch with Icarus until the hard earth softly caught us.
Icarus
ran off to tell the Gods how high he got while I sat there to weep over melted
wings.
No, I think, I’ll stay here – play
cards with the sleeping lion, throwing stones at the man on the moon with Jack.
No, my lovely muse, I will not take
your hand. I will not fly with you now. I will not fall again …
But she smiled at me with a little
chuckle because she already has me by the hand and leading me out the
door.
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