The Muse to her Poet

If you were young and free of care

And all the joy was ours to share,

The winding path would call your name

And I would walk with you again.

 

What man can ever shed old skin,

Undo what is done, start again,

Tho? Grow wings, terrorise the air;

And swoop upon his maiden fare?

 

Alas, you’re not the man I knew,

In love with all the world; you’re thru:

Asleep upon your bed of roses

And a thousand fragrant posies.

 

The pretty lambs are lame, devoured,

The appetite for spring flowers

Decayed; and the fine ornaments

Of May are worn with compliments.

 

Your classic lines once fresh, and born

From feelings that were true, are worn

With verses stiff that strain to rhyme,

Degraded by the march of time.

 

I cannot come until you prove

A man to shame the gods; first move

The hardened mountains and the field

Between my thighs, and I will yield.

 

April, 2016