muse in the machine

We may well try to listen
Though curled words fall upon deaf ears
We will crawl to our convictions
Though mighty winds blow straight through pretense

Call at your will
But for will there is no place
For future arms of
Black veiled brides
Fall dead at creation’s fists

Murder to the martyrs
Who built their articulate falls
Instead let us Sing lost songs to silhouette men
Who were saviors with no need for applause

We all bellow at the muse in the machine
With her courage, her course, her disgrace
As she charges the helms of our vessels
We shall sink beneath her inexorable grip

May you be freed.
May you be freed of me.
May you be made.
Be a made man, as the muse leaves the machine