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.