Is inspiration truly worth my soul?
Enduring an eternity of pain
In exchange for rhymes which cannot console
A poet who pursues his muse in vain?
I wish, Dark Lady, I could say you are
Dead to me. Utter the words – and mean them –
As if my will would extinguish a star.
But, your light blazes, and lost love condemns
The mind; infecting slumber with visions
Of thy face; deceiving every sense;
Permitting the devil visitation:
An ambush sans corporeal presence.
Your mem’ry lives, arousing emotion:Passion as penance to seed creation.