A Muse Of Polysemy. Poem by Maree Scarlett

My muse speaks to me,
in alluring tones dressed
in a cloak made of Nights'
firmament, sky of subaqueous midnight
he asks me to take assurance
in his penetrating voice.
The witching hour wakes me
in anxiety I stretch shaking
legs over cleans sheets
and watch stars fall within the coal sky.

Ghosts appear! They vomit from my stomach
dust-covered sodden gravity, my muse
speaks: once, twice, he offers few words
few reflections, few answers, few questions.
But, all the few glitter in poetic charm.
In poetry I am commanded to respond.
Singing the muse-serenade in poetic musicality.
I await another word, await love, wondering
wandering and walking a deliquesce night sky.
In my mind loss languishes luxuriously -
my heart is replete within my knotted guts.
Pervaded by my mute muse, sanguinary -
affronting me in the severe burning of my evasive star.

The hours come and the hours go.
Time passes, midnight departs
no words from my muse drop anchor.
I am weighed heavily upon
by nothingness, years of nothingness weight me
in a dread seeping slowly, morbidly into my sickened soul.

I write many words to him,
but his to me are few. The dew kisses
the grass glistening ghosts in dawn
then they frighten me. No word comes.
Assurance passes -
I float on my bed in my sky-mind
I am lost, only safe in Art's consistency
and not it's envoy: inconsistency. Reflected in a poem
a voice reaches out through space and time
remaining wordless, so no word remains
other than ‘anxiety' and it thrusts its way through me
to greet dawn spears