An ode to the muse of poetry:

Erato

O, nameless temptress who I know so well
Curling madness in my very being
You are my absinthe
My stupefying liquor
Distilled from rankest poison

I tried so hard to forget you
With your coiling tentacles or cloying loveliness
But again the madness strikes
And I am powerless in your
Merciless arms

O, perfect being risen from the ashes
Long white hands curled in my hair again
With your tender tortures
I have no choice
But to lose myself in your venom

You are far from faithful
There are hundreds like me
Wild-eyed beggars at your feet
Shrieking as your talons dig deeper
With unending beauty

O, intoxicating strumpet of virtue
Writhing in pleasure in the arms of another doomed scribbler
Twisting in pleasure as ink sprays from their
Slashed and wounded veins
That you bit through with rapturous fury

You devour the dying souls of a thousand
As I kiss you once more
I tried to escape
But you held me tight against you
And whispered another dirge in my ear

O, endless mistress of disintegrated charms
Doomed sonnet I cringe to write
You are my muse
My sickly inspiration, burning feverishly
In my stormy eyes