Hand raised against the muse
the dagger fell.
Resisted, redirected,
but unable to ignore…
It teased and enticed,
slicing bits of mind away
like slivers of fallen glass
each mischievously finding
their way into the flesh…
annoying…painful
however small.
Hand raised against the muse
the dagger fell
to put an end
to all its pestering, festering
little irritations of attention.
The funeral march wants closure,
finality of the nag—
but beware…
There is resurrection of the dead!
Claudia Lowery
May 5, 2010
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