The Poet & Her Muse

The poet stands before the muse.
She's talking of love.
But the muse isn't hungry for love.
He wants to devour her.
He eats her knees,
her toes,
her breasts,
her eyes
& spits out
her words.


What does the muse want?
Words?
Metaphors?

A poet's soul..
That is what the muse wants.

She is naked before him.
Prose written on her thighs.
When she walks, sonnets divide
into octaves & sestets.

Couplets fall into place
when her fingers nervously toy
with the quill.

But the words
don't clothe her.
No amount of meter
& rhyme
can save her now.

There's no rune
big enough to hide in.

No Thesaurus,
no OED.

The muse isn't dumb.
He wants her soul.

Once he might have taken her
smile in a neat couplet.

But now
he needs her blood.

He has eaten the poet.

She's gone now.
Nothing remains
but a page out of print.

She's past our helping.
Perhaps she's part of the muse.


~SAS