The Muse
She made it look so effortless.
Spinning words out of nothing,
Silver thread, stitching the stars;
Anything for me, she said.
Those were the days and the endless nights
I watched, as she called up poetry
Like a sacred, ancient rite;
Flames lighting her face, laughing.
For me, she would drain the sky,
A glittering drink from a cocktail glass
Distil the ink, and spill the blood;
I would seize her throat in a still-burning kiss.
I know what is said about darkness
and the dawn. Or candles, burning brighter
Before the curtain call. She was
My silken star, my supernova sky,
An effervescent sigh; my writer.
And I, the muse, her inspiration,
Walking now under the mourning dawn;
The sickly fog, the haze of grey,
Without the silver pool on which to gaze,
Nor dazzling mirrors, to see reflected
The beauty of my face.
Spinning words out of nothing,
Silver thread, stitching the stars;
Anything for me, she said.
Those were the days and the endless nights
I watched, as she called up poetry
Like a sacred, ancient rite;
Flames lighting her face, laughing.
For me, she would drain the sky,
A glittering drink from a cocktail glass
Distil the ink, and spill the blood;
I would seize her throat in a still-burning kiss.
I know what is said about darkness
and the dawn. Or candles, burning brighter
Before the curtain call. She was
My silken star, my supernova sky,
An effervescent sigh; my writer.
And I, the muse, her inspiration,
Walking now under the mourning dawn;
The sickly fog, the haze of grey,
Without the silver pool on which to gaze,
Nor dazzling mirrors, to see reflected
The beauty of my face.