And as clichéd as these muses in love,
The aching sun sighs and lays down it’s light,
And we feast on the fat and swollen dove,
Until all our hope fades into the night.
Arching chords of a music so long lost,
As breathless as the poor drowning sailor,
After many a treacherous sea crossed,
As hungry as the forgotten whaler.
So spurred to push the boundaries of time,
And to escape our mundane fantasies,
To be fooled by what this love does so mime,
Ignoring all what he says and what he sees.
And we are like them, so quaint and such bores,
Lost in the wash of dully painted hues,
Impersonating the martyrs of wars,
Sinking on this ship of our own sour muse.
