The Muse

The Muse

Each night he writes and writes,
Scratching out black gashes
On the thin skin of notebooks,
While I hover inches from his lips.

Each night he wants me to come
And light up the tender tallow
Of his flickering imagination.
Each night I come to him in vain.

He chose this house for its
Quiet solitude, but he know not
What lurks beneath its floor
Each night I try to make him see.

He thinks I come to help him
Write his sentimental verse.
I come to try and make him see the
Demons scraping up towards his feet.