Erato, muse of lyric verse, are you a blessing? Or a curse?
Erato, fair of form and face, wraps me in her warm embrace,
And whispers softly in my ear, words that I alone can hear.
I rise; she takes me by the hand, and tells me of a distant land:
A place where hopes and dreams take form; where suns are cold and ice is warm;
Of barren plains and ancient gardens; of deep regrets and unearned pardons;
Of purple cows and roads less traveled; of truths concealed and lies unraveled;
Of worlds between and worlds betwixt. I stand in awe -- I stand transfixed.
Her words paint pictures in my mind that bid me leave this world behind.
She beckons then, with whispered voice, Follow me. I have no choice....
Erato opens hidden doors: I find myself on foreign shores.
At once familiar, yet quite strange -- immutable, in constant change --
A land of nightmare and of dreams, of alternates and of extremes.
I'm shaken to the very core: I've been here many times before.
I know this place, yes, very well. But is this heaven? Or is it hell?
In this place I know I'll find the dark recesses of my mind
And hidden secrets of my soul, if only I will pay the toll.
I wish to leave, but know I'm caught, unless Erato can be bought.
"What is your toll today?" I cry. You know my coin, comes her reply, Look in your heart, and search your soul: you know the price of my parole.
The price I'll pay -- I almost fear it. The price I'll pay? Part of my spirit....
She leaves me then to mount my quest, to seek the words that suit her best.
To serve my muse, this is my cause. I go at once, I cannot pause;
I must seek her absolution. To cleanse my soul of its pollution
I travel paths that I would rather leave untouched, but I must gather
All the sunshine, all the rain, all my joy, and all my pain,
Each hope and sorrow held within, all my saintliness and sin,
Then bare myself before the world, suffer slings and arrows hurled
By those whose hearts are hard and dark, and in whose souls there is no spark.
On the chance that one recall there's light and shadow in us all.
For only thus can I, mere mortal, pass once more through her portal....
Then afterwards I sit and cry great heaving sobs, and curse the sky
And thank Erato for her choice in lending me a muse's voice.
Yet there is one more task at hand, before I leave this hallowed land:
To take the words that came to me, inscribe them for posterity,
And see that every line is polished -- each must shine or be abolished.
Then I sit back to read again the words unleashed by mind and pen.
These words that tear my soul apart, are not of mind, but from the heart!
But are they mine, these words I wrote? Or are they hers, that I just quote?
Either way, it ends the same: I title it and sign my name....
Erato, dear, I'm coming home, with your gift: a brand new poem.
