Amuse a Muse

That beauty's death reigns poetry;

'Twas Poe who said off clever head.

So forth from this my word expires:

“My dying muse is dead.”

It stalked around in vale—or Hell,

To steal my spark, my Annabel.

I wrought and fought it within head;

“My dying muse is dead.”

But yonder back, a fingers' twist,

A trick of devils' bed;

To settle now—with sin'ster brow,

That my dying muse is dead.

I watched my spark, my Annabel,

Collapse at knees and so she fell;

But from her head which hung instead,

I knew—

My dying muse is dead.

Curse me not so vile,

A man of less regard than said.

For in clear'd thoughts, ink flows anew

To write—

My dying muse is dead.

Be I receiving naught as consequence?

Debunked and base! Hear precedence:

Eyes, upon my shoulder leer —I dread,

Though my dying muse is dead.

Wax and wane, the gem of night may still;

But the oceans tease and spread.

To anchor me, my secrets deep,

So join!—

My dying muse is dead.

I shudder. shudder. shudder.

Twine the hold behind the shutter.

Whence she came, too wrists are lead

Never know!—

No dying muse is dead.

No bells a'sound or guns resound;

A think too queer—at first—to tread.

But quixotic thoughts of later nights:

How my dying muse is dead.

Ebb and flow—in captive eye,

More so than I, the currents are alive!

They kiss my toes and swoon my head:

“Your dying muse is dead!”

That beauty's death reigns poetry;

'Twas Poe who said off clever head.

And forth from this my breath expires:

With my dying muse, I'm dead.