Beautiful as the arts you inspire,
whether holding snake or lyre,
marble muscles, curled hair loose,
Apollo, you have been my muse,
walking me through sky and sea
dressed in rose-gilt poesy,
but lately you have come no more
lifting me like an eagle to soar
but rather tortured, feeling damned,
slipping from bed at 2:00 AM,
naked and shivering with the cold
I race to paper and pen to hold
words I saw half in a dream
not to lose them, have them seem
faded in gray light of dawn,
as though for art’s sake I’m a pawn.
Your lyre’s strings, a prison cage,
holding me in aesthetic rage,
leaving me feeling your serpent’s a rod,
and that you’re a demon, not a god.

[Ellen Denton is a freelance writer living in the Rocky Mountains with her husband and two demonic cats who wreak havoc on a regular basis (the cats, not the husband). Although most of her publications are fiction stories that have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, she has a long-term love of poetry. Her poems have appeared in a Binnacle publication, twice in the Songs of Eretz Poetry Review, in a “Things Japanese” print anthology, and she was one of the short-listed finalists for the PK poetry competition.]