Not the last, but a closure poem
These poems are the contract with my Muse
Both goddess and the one for whom I yearn -
in tousled sheets unfaithfully I burn.
I am the suitor whom she will not choose
Nor will pursue her. I know how this goes.
Less wise, when young, less kind and far less just
I broke an older lover's heart. We must
pay in full measure bitterness and woes
that we inflicted. Rather be aware
of prudence, stay at least as far away
as lets me write. It is with words I pay
for past unkindness. And sometimes I dare
to touch my Muse's hand in crowded bars
and ask permission to show you my scars.
And kiss her cheek perhaps, but not her lips.
Protect my heart from passion, heal the rips
that other loves have clawed there. Words assuage
bad memories. Restraint's the priest whose oil
will calm love's cauldron when it's at a boil -
lead heart to death perhaps. Don Cupid's rage
kills the heart faster, hardens it. I kneel
pray Mother Venus mercy. Muse protects
me and I pay her wage in texts
of love controlled. The Muse has stamped her seal
on this the contract. Never hope. The worse
Thing is to haggle. Kissed cheek,touch of hand
is all I need. Before the Muse I stand
praise her and love. Immortal in my verse.