The Muse

What is a Muse?

0505.2024

A fire burning too bright

before smoldering into ash—

a hunger without a body.

I’ve grown wary of muses.

Wary of their perfumed voices,

and sugar-spun illusions—

but most of all,

the careless gesture

that unravels the spell.

What is a Muse?

A moment’s infatuation,

a gasp held a second too long,

a silhouette mistaken for a soul.

It is projection—

not presence.

A borrowed pulse.

A mask draped over the ache

of your own unmet becoming.

It is the ghost of a self

you almost dared to believe in,

the corner of an ideal

you touched—

afraid to let go

in case it was entirely real.

A muse is a liar.

But not at first.

At first, they are a promise.

They raise you in soft light,

then drop you

from a greater height.

And when the echo fades,

you are left with your own voice—

sharper, lonelier,

and finally true.

I’ve had a handful.

None stayed.

They never do.

Like love, they vanish.

Like fog,

they resist the grasp—

and in trying to hold them,

you learn to roar.

In the end,

they are a beautiful betrayal.

More trouble than worth.

Less than myth—

and no offering

for the woman who rose

from the silence they left her in.

— m.c.f.