This Muse of Mine

A Poem by Ryan Hamill

This muse of mine is a dark and sullen beauty. Her weary eyes are framed by the evidence of a thousand sleepless nights. Her alabaster skin has never known the warmth of the sun, choosing instead to wrap herself in the shadows of a moonless sky. Her eyes do not sparkle. Her ruby lips are bitten red raw. Her nails are bitten to the quick, and her hair is black as the All father’s crows.

This muse of mine will inspire no great heroics. Wars will not be waged in her name, suitors will not clamour for her hand. She will not inspire the great poets. Her name will not be found in the annals of time.

This muse of mine will not gift me with flowery words. She is a cruel mistress. She leaves a dull ache in my chest. Where my heart once beat is instead a cavernous hole, filled with the unused rotting words. They are rusty from disuse, and afraid of the light. They spill forth devour the pages with an erotic hunger, whilst leaving me with only longing.

This muse of mine does not kiss me with the taste of honey and the smell of summer. She is bitter on my tongue. She takes me into her, not for romance or for pleasure but because we are alive. She makes love with an urgency that speaks of someone who understands futility. She pierces my lip, a bite that opens me up to her. She drinks from me, my blood a copper wine we share as I pour everything of me into her. We are connected, and she drains me, taking everything from me. I taste heaven between the salt of my blood and the bitterness of her kiss.

This muse of mine does not soften my demons; she frightens them. They quake at her passing. Here is the one to destroy you! Not in the light of grand fights, but in darkness. She will drag you down and murder you.

This muse of mine will not stay. As sure as the darkest night will eventually flee from the sun, she too will run from the light. She will leave me broken for the daylight to find me. I will miss her winter's chill, even as I feel the sun upon my skin.