Timely Death of a Muse

My muse died today. Although how could I lose abuse or amuse what was never mine to use as I see fit, hear fitness, feel fitfully? This muse dies tonight not from old age as I had long predicted must be my sad and unread case, but for a new voice or vice, for deeper lyrics and wider melodies and globally local choreography perhaps a ridiculous younger person's game. They say not to write, unless you must; Not to paint or sing or dance or become a prostitute unless you would otherwise eco-bust ego-lust away this lifeline. If you can live with something, most anything, else to occupy your time and pay the rent, then do and be those more civil relationships instead. It never occurred to me perhaps because They didn't say so, I might do most everything else so I could retire into writing and reading and singing and dancing But not prostitution because no one would pay for what I can not give away with integrity intact. I miss this muse already but doubt she even remembers me, a right hand useful responding to her labored demands too ponderously telling, psychic yelling, when I longed to show in grace integrity's newest face rhythm pattern pace divinely humane race robustly timeless space without dissonant disgrace Showing not telling, Belonging not longing, Dancing not marching, Singing not shouting to and with and for tomorrow's mute muses, today's deaf listeners, amusing to move on with overflowing emotions not mere museless motions. Now I have broken my only two rules of unself-conscious writing. 1. Never mention the muse aloud or dead for She abhors a nonvacuum of light, and 2. Never write about writing, For the same non-reason that optimal sexual sensual neural experience cannot happen if my sole and sold-out purpose is this Great ****** of we-consciousness. My more retiring amusement died today. Although how could I lose abuse or ever timelessly muse what was never mine to use?