Eulogy of the Muse

She would bleed out of me uncontrollably. She would shake the hand to stumble towards a pen or any type of keyboard and discern. She was a mistress that lived in wooden pipes and rolling papers, in starry skies and bus rides, in poetry classes and nature walks. She made kaleidoscope a verb. She took away sleep or else crept her way in, where even now she lives as a ghost, dictating flashes of magic. I thought that tree of life inside my head contained an elixir of boundless existence... it was sweet, a thick whaft of words. But she is dead now, limp and lifeless. The autopsy proves she drowned. The water of the ocean rotted her wood, dissolved her powers. An Icharus. With her I felt the sparks of the sun on my face, I grabbed the twigs that burned in the campfire and she sat on the burning branches as if she were made of air. I held her hand as we plunged towards the depths of dreams in that watery tempest. An ocean death, a death in the place of origin. Now her corpse is dry as stone, porous. All deserts were once oceans. All oceans have vague memories of incandescent volcano explosions, times of heat and destructive creation. What was there in the poetry, in the jumbled prose? A vomitive cry, an itch, a restless eye. But most of all a heart consumed by fire. That fire reached the brain and linked both organs. Now the heart beats like a clock, and the brain is only ego, uninspired. I must justify my absence, honor her life by reconigzing her death. I must speak of the emptiness, the silence of cave walls. Except that there is nothing really to say. Silence and emptiness speak for themselves. Contepmlation becomes passive, passion becomes contemplative. And there is nothing new under the sun.