"Sing, O Muse..."

Is my muse a pagan beauty,
A Helen come to launch a thousand
Ships against my sorry self?
A heavenly arch come down
To sing in words i learned in Youth
Of things I'd found and lost
Or left behind?
Or only just a whirlwind -- a mind
Divided, resorting, stirring up
What had been left to lie?
Or maybe no muse at all.
Maybe no song.
Maybe words on words
On paper on thoughts
Fragmented dreams
That never mean a thing.