Spilled Ink

submarinedreams:

I invoke the Muses, but where
are they in this psychedelic age, where we
are held in hospital rooms by
somniferous drips that muddle our
minds? The doctors say that they
will cure this delirium that creeps in
from the dark and entropic corners of a
psyche marred by razorblade rivulets running
from my wrists and dripping
from my fingers. The doctors say that they
will kill my Muses.

I invoke the Muses, but where
are they in an age where the gods
have been chased from the sky, where
Prometheus tramples the
imperfect perfection of the 
Moon? The doctors say this age is
glorious, they boast of science
and bury me in toroidal magnets
mapping the corners of my deepest
secrets, the ones never spoken, laid
out in liquid crystal where the
doctors can point and say “This means that
you are…”

The Heliconian slopes sleep silent, the
slender-ankled Muses driven out.
Helios has fled the sun, leaving a silent
furnace of hydrogen and helium.
The Nereids have left the shores of the sea
and the stars, seeing no more, are swallowed by
the lights of cities, the past paved over.

I know where the Muses have gone, the
doctors tie them to gurneys and lock them in
wards, where those who would sing of wonder
instead wander in hospital gowns and,
diagnosed, their dreams slowly drown.