The Muse

My dear music,

Never have thee failed:

To catch a heart, thrice hurt

With profundity, grace entailed.

Sonority, my loveliest,

Ever have thee sung:

The soft, sweet phrases

That to choking breath

Give lungs.

The same that once sang

To woman:

And with silence, neglect,

Found only 

subtle 

derision.

Viola, sweet daughter,

Ever have your eyes shone:

Where crevices spew light,

And labors give birth

To unparalleled tone.

Piano, grand master,

Ever have thee taught:

Harmony’s blinding light,

And drama’s bold sound,

Crashing with tremors,

Of passion deeply fraught.

So it is, wisdom once said:

“But the notes cannot caress,

The voices won’t take care,

The sound cannot address

The growing age, and solitary despair.”

But the sage didn’t see

what hell the life, 

of a rare man,

Gives me:

A mind with no home,

And a heart, for regard, too red!

And so the notes, indeed, suffice,

For company, loving, 

is too scarce:

To sing better,

and loose the fetters.

To open apart,

and steal Art.

_________________

R.V. Smith: “The Muse”, 06-02-23

© 2023 by Ryan Vincent Smith