Story, Anticlimax, Tributary, Muse

This gurgulling brook, this Caravaggio alto, this mountain top sunrise; tributaries to my heart. I am filled but like a canyon, winds moving.

Muse! Hold this quivering pen until hand becomes dust and bones.

"Mortal, your story is your own, a tribute to the gods and their court. All the tragedies and triumphs of the human struggle, the splendor of Earth from a mortals eyes. How precious it must seem when eventually it will be your last, but never knowing which.

Each eye sees from a different position, every breath rattles in a dying cage but exhales with a different shard of life. Carry on and show us what your shard feels. When I come to hold the writer's hand it will be the anticlimax."