You know the Muse.
He sits in high places. We visit him when we get that high.
We are rarely that high, but some, a season of majesty is gifted.
My seasons are done.
Winter sets me in regret. Joyful regret where no English word can go.
I have some others - they are not me. The poles of my compass ever changing.
For now north is in winter and south is in the past dichotmies in endless echo rotating around a plastic bhuda.
Both gods, these others.
One the sphinx and one the mud.
Both sip from the cup.
The mud told me the way of Shiva teh war of life.
He sits in his cave at the end of the destruction af all he made
Contemplates nothing
And in the nothing dwells his seed
He contmplates the root and shoot in awe the christal growth.
Careful not to touch his sward, the crows are gods too.
Into the air the spirit climbs in search of the cup.
Some dream of the cup. Some just talk.
At this wintry plinth it climbs.
some can even see the gods dancing on that rim.
To sip is the divinity for which we climb.
And in that plinth taste.
The dirt is just dirt. and yet the crystals
jag our skin and upward taken to dream or fly or shatter bleeding happy or sad regardless of North.
And the shynx?
none can look in that eye
