sing to me

I've been listening to more music (my selection on the iPod) in the past week than all the music added up in the past 6 months before this week.

It's because my muse has no voice, and has to borrow words from arias already written, strings already strummed, keys long-worn. Just like Ovid's Echo, her melody will go unheard, unnoticed, washed away as the lily withers, because she cannot, must not, step out of line.

It's not a cruel nor violent fate, just a sad ending which aptly ends every good book.

And I want to be a good book.

Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns
driven time and again off course, once he had plundered
the hallowed heights of Troy.
~That which begins Homer's The Odyssey