By Dana Shahar Meyer
A muted muse is useless, like a school bus in the summertime, like an extra syllable in a phrase rhyme. But still, my muse, she churns beneath the surface, my throat burns as she yearns to resurface, but she can’t discern if it would service my heavy soul, or just disservice my whole goal of keeping sane. All her control inside my brain, she refuses to entrain these thoughts to me, it’s inhumane, because here I remain, with no restraint yet nothing to say– my muse slain, but me, still gasping for a way to speak.
