Salacious Poet, For a Bitter Muse
I have admired many, so often, and
wondered for whom they used to write
their muses; if not for their lovers, then
for whom? A poet like me who loved
them for great things. Ah, I know—
a different thought, a different
style, but not that much concerns
me, awhile, but the smile in you
that beamed like magenta moon and
lured strollers to kiss the twilight night,
until it dimmed away, so were you,
ditching the one you loved. Having
dazed in the stolen memoirs of
spring that was mine, I know now—
admiration, sometimes, if not always has
a bitter ending…in a poet’s lonely page!
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