Friday, February 12, 2010

A Sonnet for the eternal her of Montréal (take eight)

False Muse by name of Siren I call you

Through the burning night they’re drinking

My soul, my self, my spirit’s talent true

Ah Muse, to the Siren’s song I’m sinking

And yet, cooly, you stand apart from this

On my behalf you will not interevene

Your sway and powers, for me, run amiss

I wonder how you did cut me so clean

With your sweet touch I rose above the rest

Now in my woe blackness plunged you delight

Filled with your energy you loved me best

In dark solitudes you showed me your light

Was nothing more than a wet match burning

Confusion; no more than a trick of yearning

No comments:

Post a Comment