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.