The Muse Never Dies
I keep meeting this girl
this broken girl
beautiful, but like a broken toy
or Humpty Dumpty after all efforts
of the King’s horses and men
and I can never fix her
so I no longer even try.
I fuck her silly
for as long as she’ll let me
then, as we circle
ever and ever closer
to the edge of emotion, she,
like a deer in the headlights,
stops — cold,
catches herself,
and bolts.
Me, like a dumbass
I usually fall (or do I leap?)
off the edge.
But what can I say?
Misery was my only companion
for many a year and
I love both the love,
as well as the loss.
Perhaps I’m too nice,
perhaps they’re too broken,
but I’ve been broken before.
And I’ll be damned if I fear
flying too close to the sun.
So, as soon as the bleeding stops
as soon as my wings flex again,
I fly.
