Sitting pen in hand-poised over white paper, I wait for the muse to descend and words to flow from an eternal wellspring. Language seeps unawares from my marrow, clashing with my conscious mind. Bickering between planes of existence, I cling to one smothering the other. I silence my internal critic and languish in a deluge of words, sounds, irregular syllables; straining to hear my bones’ song. Closed lipped, I dare not utter words aloud for fear the taste, bitter in my mouth. Acrid my heart is, words unleashed from my essence catch on my tongue, persimmons not ripe. The muse amused at me, laughing at my plight. She says to me, “Be light, free; float with me as I command the breeze to blow!” Her siren song warms the bitter pus in my bones. Perhaps I should write more poetry.