It was the aberration
in blood roses,
my muse of tragedy first strikes my chest;
at bedrock horizons, fragmentary, my lady
her head of mirth
in my lap, as not the pattern of death’s arboretum
you sought for so many
abandoning, estranged in the distance
how precise and anticlastic
as if each horror you provoked
could somehow make me want you;
poke the moon
death searches god
death is a flower in your arms,
your killer bird,
your sleeping pill for your fragmented mind
no attempt for self-criticism, not at all;
a satyr’s bliss to appear
just as Macbeth’s final act
as we’ve changed her like her wrath.
© 2021 Pseudopsychosis All Rights Reserved.
I think I wrote this back in late July, sometime after a poem I wrote in response to a dVerse prompt. Melpomene, in essence, is the muse of tragedy. A few people guessed that the muse I talked about in the poem I linked was her. It was actually Erato, ironically, but it inspired me to write something about Melpomene. I’m posting it now here since I doubt I will come back to it anytime soon, but I know it feels incomplete (in my eyes) so I will probably edit it when I feel it calling to me again. Now doesn’t feel the right time.
Also, not me just going through my writing folder and posting poems I wrote long ago to hide that I haven’t written new poetry since the last dVerse prompt. 👀
Anyway, hope you could enjoy. Thanks for reading and Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas!