The familiar scent of my muse,
Whiffs of heaven and hell in a potpourri,
The nectar of spring, the desolate autumn,
In a melange of oxymorons,
It follows me around like shadows,
The ones that pining souls cast,
On each other's personal spaces,
In the farthest corner of a private memory,
A musing or a few lines of poetry,
An ode, a sonnet or a humble limerick,
Her inimitable footsteps plastered about,
Inaccessible levels of layered emotions,
Under the sun she burns my skin,
In the moonlight she burns my soul,
And the perfumed vespertine breeze,
Burdens my poor, lonely breast,
The punctual rooster cries aloud,
To sear open a million inward wounds,
My muse's longish fingernails,
Plows deep into my tired flesh,
And I profusely pour out,
A scarlet stream of hapless dreams,
And transcend to perpetual damnation,
My beloved muse and I!
