My Muse

My Muse sings when
I am stripped naked,
down in the mud,
covered with wounds,
bleeding, oozing, gaping, throbbing
in pain.

With my heart clenched tight
in a stranglehold,
squeezed until it bursts open
and spills the hidden, dormant
song birds.

And as they sing,
I heal.
My wounds dry close.
My heart feels light.
The scars slowly fade away.

My muse departs
Now that I am healed and clothed.

I search for her.
But she cares not for me
until I am stripped naked,
down in the mud,
covered with wounds,
bleeding, oozing, gaping, throbbing
in pain.

My foul weather friend,
My lover on lonely nights,
My caresser, my comforter,
My sigh, my voice, my wail,
My scream,
My silence,
My muse.

I need her more than I need myself.
So I lay myself open
to the elements of nature,
to those of my mind,
to all whom I love,
to be hurt so deep
that my muse may come back to me.

---GST