Fall to the floor,
Let loose your breath,
Drop tears to drown,
That curséd guest, death.
Pull children closer,
And quell their squirms,
Settle your gripes,
On generous terms.
Snuff all the candles,
Draw all the blinds,
Table your reading,
And focus your minds.
The muse has departed,
And taken the words,
She’s gone to Nirvana,
To live with the birds.
Without a good-bye,
Neither note, nor warning,
Just passed in the night,
And left us in mourning.
She’s frozen all hearts,
And dampened all meaning,
The act of creation,
Now purposeless gleaning.
The art has no reason,
So cannot be art,
The muse, in her leaving,
Has torn it apart.
So wear the black vestments,
Sit vigil and wake,
For art without muse,
Is art without sake.

Bryson Thomas