the ninth muse

Ninth muse, immortal rage and passion
of the feminine, descending to us
On wings, tattered, broken, falling
Your words through time, your body
To the hard rocks at passions ending
Defining a curve of graceful futility
A tempest immortal in a living heart.

And in all your wanderings, ninth muse
Have you found peace, enthroned amidst
the company of gods? Or do you
languish, still and broken, on the rocks
Of Lesbos, fair and idolated?

Wyl, your poetry always makes me wonder about things, thank you for another fine piece.

i agree with Rhabbi... i always have to read them more then once and then sit quitely and think... Very nice Wyl

hugs