Excerpt from The Muse's Mirror, Vol. 2: Being a Collection of Poems The King, great man, fends all his out, Not caring for a fingle clout But what's more happy fiill, He's not oblig'd to count the rags, Nor fiufl' 'em into canvafs bags, 0h no - nor write the bill. About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.

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In his debut collection of poems, Conor Bracken traces the nerves of toxic masculinity—white as maggots but taut as lyre strings—that twitch and fizz inside events as homegrown as school shootings and as distant as the execution of medieval French heretics. Everywhere, though, there are bodies: the stout slouch of Henry Kissinger in a towel, a headless snake writhing in a footwell, a cantor with a beautiful voice and an inexorable need to be touched. And then there’s the body of our speaker: “white and alive and in love” and damaged by the same ravenous appetites he isn’t always able to curb. There is no hero here, only a song that turns towards and away from reckoning with the costs the neo-imperial world order extracts from bodies both supine and thrashing. These poems flicker like fire and billow like night’s velvet curtain, which you can “roughen with one hand / and smooth with the other.”

"A man chasing the horizon roamed the whole world round to realize he had always been standing on it..." Life is like a ballet in which different experiences take the lead. Sometimes they are graceful while other times they are chaotic. It is easy to get lost but we all still yearn to be found. In the pages of Mirror for My Muse, you will find passion, turmoil, hatred, and hope - all in the attempt for me to find myself... to find clarity before the curtain falls. The world that was in me, I let loose through the verses I penned, and now, it is your turn to take this journey - to let out your zest and gusto as you read each word. But, had words been like a knife - in our hands to sting or save someone - we would have a better world. But no! Words don't expect consent; they get deep into us to poison or poise our state of being. So, if you choose to read this book, what my words would do to you is not in my hands. I wrote what was in me, and in that, I was sincere. Be what may, I hope what I wrote shall mean the same to you, and if not, let it be yours and yours only. I shall cherish it either way. Adieu!

Twenty years past, the governors plotted murder. Ruled by avarice, they imprisoned the winged dragons of Taran Leigh in the black cells of a stone lair. Tormented by spine and spur the once peaceful creatures howl, immense webbed wings beating beneath iron bars. Those who raised their voices in protest were banished--skyriders, the men who rode the dragons--vanished to the distant mountains of the Mirror.Now, Treasa, the daughter of exiles, seeker of secrets, dreams with the lair's dragons, her heart torn by her love for the winged creatures and a man who masters them. She must choose her path with care. The lair's black -garbed riders sense the dragon's growing savagery. Yet one, Conall, longs to grasp their power, subdue them and soar, unaware that winged flight, merged in harmony, is his for the asking. Then, a curved talon rends Conall's flesh and dragon scale, rattling against white ribs and the world shifts. As hearts once parted bind, Terasa and Conall join forces to fight for the dragon's freedom. Alliances form, old myths are revealed and new myths are born.