The ravaging of the Muses.

music in the dark morning
at a littered ground of some surburban park
while snow beats in the air
thick wet snow covers a moving shoulder
a glance of a blue pale cheek
and heavy breath accompanying each desparate step

indiscernible melodies ascend to the heavens while
slowly the branches move with a dirty hand crushing
wood echoing through the park; a dog barks from the distance
as cars signal the beginning of a winter's day

you see her back turned her arms flailing
her hair indistinguishable from her long coat
she doesn't scream but the way she trembles suggests that
something is wrong

and from the look in her eye, when she turns
as she sees the hungry look on your face
and the others you have brought along

you managed to take her kin and hang their bodies on a tree burning
the ashes indistinguishable from the snow falling.

you shake your finger
and you tell her
no more fancy, no more songs, and no more dreams.

you remove the plugs from your ears
and touch her cheek to taste her tears.

so many tales and songs written and remembered
but with a soft click now
there is only howling gust of snow between the woodsticks.