By night, I take my proper title—
muse, not metaphor.
The moon assents without argument.
It knows a sovereign when it sees one.
I enter darkness with alacrity,
not haste—precision.
The kind of arrival that turns keys in locks
already loosened by intuition.
The underworld recognizes my footfall.
We have met before.
Secrets gather, stately and unspectacular,
like dignitaries relieved to remove their masks.
They speak in low registers,
poignant with restraint,
grateful I don’t demand confession
where consent will do.
I am exuberant in shadow—
a measured exuberance,
all velvet pulse and quiet laughter.
Power doesn’t shout here;
It nods.
It waits.
It understands timing.
The night is omnipotent in its patience,
and I mirror it.
I listen until truth volunteers itself.
I let meanings ripen.
I do not interrogate mysteries—
I invite their assent.
Call it mysticism if you need a label.
I call it literacy.
I read what’s buried without digging.
I curate what must remain veiled.
Exposure is vulgar.
Discernment is divine.
There is sass in my stillness,
confidence in my pauses.
I have survived enough symbolic deaths
to know resurrection improves posture
and dramatically sharpens boundaries.
By dawn, I’ll return stately and composed,
palatable to daylight,
efficiently unthreatening.
But at night—
I am muse and medium,
exuberant yet exacting,
omniscient enough to wait,
omnipotent enough not to prove it.
The underworld whispers my name
not because I seek it,
But because I keep secrets
as beautifully as I keep myself–
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