To the Muses by Mel Ramage
How dare you sit high and mighty and permit pain to fester.
Have you grown so entitled
And think yourselves great as you gorge on our suffering.
Allow me to show you pain:
It’s being home with no solace;
It’s being stuck in a maze
With no star to guide you home ward;
It’s the shock of the cold side of the bed
Where it was once warm;
The reversal of butterflies-
A motion sickness whilst you try to grasp the unravelling threads
Of what is becoming of you.
When you stopped to smell the roses and realised
They have decayed before your very eyes;
When your face has succumbed
To its natural shape as you choked on the tears;
When you have contrived a puzzle but all the colours have faded;
Was it always black & white?
When your hair stood on edge as the thunder rolled in;
Ruining your sunlight basking-
Why does it never last long?
It’s drowning slowly but surely,
Where there’s no water; nothing at all.
My pain demands to be felt.