THE MUSE'S CALL

THE MUSE’S CALL

The last of light is craved upon to fall

The shapely, longing limbs stretch to the tall

Smoothed skin as oil upon the water waits

My heart beats, sheds blood and lust anticipates

I hear her call, her song is as the Loralie

Her vision sees thus far, sees much more than I

Beyond the spreading of her naked limbs

She beckons men, and women, where fall begins

There is no pretence, no guilt, no idle play

This is the place where she will gladly lay

Command her wanting lust against the bitter winds

And watch the lonely man, again, fall into sin

The Muse is to dictate, none will be praised

Young men fall short within the loving haze

She is a whore, a tart, a lusting stone

And better men have risked, then left alone.

Don’t give the Muse a thought, her beauty tempts

None of us will last; remain exempt

She wants nothing from us but the tortured soul

Then disposes of the corpse up [on the cold

What is her epitaph for you and me?

Does she know or care or set any of us free?

More likely we will falter, step bravely to the fold

Be heard no more until the story told

One lonely night, one moment of despair

He felt the pain of loneliness, of lack of care

And in among the turmoil of it all

The was the faintness of the Muse’s call.