I climbed beneath their tempest guise,
Not cruel—but wondrous, wild—
Their tongues, like serpents, wove the skies,
And bade me be beguiled.
Their muses danced in frenzied streams,
A chaos, deep, divine—
I felt them tear my tethered dreams,
To fashion them as mine.
They stripped me to a vital beat,
No thought, no flesh remained—
But pulses rising, stark and fleet,
By holy torrents chained.
Her voice—a middle path untold—
Did whisper through my bone,
A force that breaks, yet gently molds,
And claims my craft her own.
No mercy in her artful fire,
Yet none would I beseech—
For every line she might inspire
Lies just beyond my reach.
O gods who sing and chaos bring,
Your wild winds are my home—
A vessel frail, I learn to cling,
To storms that bid me roam.
:: 01.15.2025 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 