The Muse of Momus

Wondering in the arbour of the soulless divine,

What am I to do if not conform to crime?

Sick and bereft from the constraints of my heart,

The mind that feints to be recluse as my fault

 

Extol the genius, who gave me my skill,

To jibe the inane with gruesome tirade,

But what must this foolish do to his innate creed,

In silence when sorrow holds his feel

 

The God in me is not but odious to me,

At times when I fail to abate my need,

For if I think alone without minds to perceive,

Then I think for all while none does for me

 

This distinction of mine is poison to me,

O’ Dear Themis! For justice only I plead,

The fate of one must bind with another,

Why must my seed be made acarpous?

 

O’ Nyx my mother, what have you begot?

A tyrant of words lost at heart,

Where it matters so I have no lore,

I am thus a poet without a lover to cajole

 

But then I look at her, wonders galore,

Beauty resonates in her every pore,

A Goddess true to her worthy crown,

Praise the zeal by which she was born

 

Inherits the Muse conundrum of my canon,

Makes her so an equal to me,

Nay not a Muse! Not then a muse is she,

I a God claim her to be even more than me

 

But what sadness clinches me when I see her so,

For she drifts with another and not with whom she should be,

To the ends of time I must still cling and hope,

 For she is the only one I yearn to adore

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