Saddened by sweet sophistry
She twisted the knife in her gut.
I found no reason why she might do it,
Beside the years of imprisonment
Playing hostess to writers and artists.
She wrote a letter to me last week,
It was poorly written,
But no one cares about the inspiration.
She found her apartment claustrophobic.
And the big city heights dizzying.
They are a world away from her simple beginnings.
She must have been lonely,
She knew that she was the muse
Not the creator.
Come to think of it, maybe it was simply that.
Calliope is dead.
Creation goes on.
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