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The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

Muse


Degorram

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There is a child in me.

She is there, lying in my heart.

Curled up,

eyes closed.

No – not a child,

For she is more ancient than the sea.

She existed when the stars

were spoken into being.

When at a shout

the light poured over the earth

and the expansion of the universe began.

There is a child in me.

I call her a child

For she is small

but strong,

her hands no bigger than snowflakes,

her hair longer than the sky

and wrapped around her

like ribbon.

Her voice a smooth melody,

and I ache to hear her silence.

She rests inside a corner of my heart

and fills me with a dying glow.

There is a child in me.

But she fades

Every time a star dies.

A little more each winter,

a little more each new moon.

I stand.

I rise.

I walk

among the stars,

those angels who remember her name

when no one else can.

They sing haunting echoes

that catch in the corner of my heart.

I feel her light within me.

And I release the muse

that haunts my spirit.

Nearby a star collapses

and pulls ancients to its core;

those mourning bodies

that humans watch in awe

swallowed whole

now no more.

Where is my perspective?

The solar wind furies,

tears the flesh

of this particle of dust.

But I hold on

for the sake of the child.

She stirs inside me,

sensing the dance of the comets,

sensing the swirl of color

that we humans have never seen,

can only imagine,

can only dream.

I open my heart,

the child escapes.

She, now released,

turns to face me.

There in the gush of celestial music,

I see myself,

a muse of vast proportions,

clothed in fire,

gilded in storm,

sister of the stars,

cousin of the wind,

my life,

my heart,

my imagination.

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