the muse of tragedy | a poem
the muse of tragedy
would you like me
to read you a poem?
i would like that very much
much more than anything in the world.
i will read you the very first poem
from the book of illusions
the first time we met
guided, among friends
and not so friends,
by the tender hands
of Melpomene herself
my muse, you saw,
in that fog we were in,
the brilliant mist of deception
shrouding our brows with rainbows,
when we should have wept,
as all lovers should,
at the presence of the illusion
we should have shed a million tears
furious and unceasing
for having known nothing
and never wanting to know a thing
for having never spoken a word to me
nor i to you
having then that illusion of each other
and our own selves
preciously preserved
by the muse of tragedy herself
at the sight of that bright rainbow
of promises and beauty
of shared mind
of cabins in woods and children's books
and anthologies and love and knowledge
of curses in Spanish and prayers in gibberish
we should have wept
furiously and ceaselessly
at that moment
for that moment
maybe then we would not weep so much
as we do now
for it.
maybe then you will come back to me,
my lonely girl,
and not be scared to see my tears.
why did you not want to see my tears?
END