The muse has left my side but another time,
In flights with Hermes; no message of joy—
But rather, teaching me its simplest crime:
Stealing my heart away; Paris to Helen of Troy.
My heart flies with you—and with it—the skills.
Hope and despair; Love and hate—bound by Pandora's box,
Torn from the rest of my soul—by god's wills.
These passions and crafts snatched up in chains and locks.
Sisyphus, Oh Sisyphus—the broken story of my fool heart,
The tides of my blooming love rise only to stall,
Porcelain ventricles shatter on marble floor—pieces apart.
The most ancient human tragedy to possibly befall.
Dearest muse—writing my soul to you—my first mistake.
Cruelest muse—a thousand words—a picture of heartache.
©Ryan R. Baron
October 30th, 2009