To my muse

Mother what I could never tell you
about all those mad verses beating in my eyes
or the bitter battles of sirens and faithless lovers
and their careless flights. This is my tempestuous season -

Mother what I could never tell you
about my melancholy journaled in yesterdays' wings
or my punishing fear of your mortality, reminding me
of how my angry hunger will one day stop its treason -

Mother what I could never tell you
about the simple joy of showing you my broken skin, joy
in the knowledge that your blood is thinned into mine
such that I could never bleed again with your blessing -

Mother what I could never tell you
I think you already know; you are not nearly human
You would humbly disagree, but I knew from years ago
You are not just my mother, but an angel in mortal dressing.