my muse is mortal

Eves of change
Uselessly holding on
What's come to pass

Grasping rings of smoke
Tucking them in empty jars
Left from canning


I feel, wanting to feel more
Visceral manifestation
Buried, buried within me

Shelved glass cages
Averting their eyes from mine
Hovering ghosts float like fish

I know what I want, nothing I thought
My artless frustration
Slow, incompetent venturing

The winter/spring preserves
Hopefully still fresh then
Unsealed at three days death

My unreturned is worse
His map is laid
Mine is a thousand thoughts

Spooned stale smoke
Over sleepy congenial flesh
Melted by un-attached words

My muse is mortal
I want to wrap him in my sheets
Lick his wounds to peace

The complicated I am
Defies convention of wrong
Restless change defines my unfulfilled want
.
.
.