This Muse Is Not Playing Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

From the sound
of a word already
heard; there it comes
a most propounding silence
and within this embittering tone
‘we' keep silent; as the cold whispers.
To be alone in these times, any demon
would surrender and so, brandish that lie.
Yet still, ‘we' have no generation unshackled
of cold egos; and inside haunting themselves as
they run away and hide, waiting to deceive and
in triumph, ignite ‘the games'… When darkness
inhabits the light bound by distant murmurings
of minions whimpering, wanting cold from the
suns; the angel of foreboding design comes.
That being, here and inflaming that other
memory from a host singing messages.
This, is a ‘tell, ' to dwell; to keep a rage
heating up each night's scene and sound
out loud to the death. So, does this angel
from that high, windless peak, send out
that chilled, and watery musical score
and this muse, is not playing!