It seems each time a new muse inspires,
The old gets jealous. Imagination
Run amuck. Some unconscious desire,
Perhaps. A bit of self-flagellation;
Punishing my spirit for betraying
Memory; splintering those promises
Set down in so much ink; a mind straying,
Craving the illusion of her kisses.
Countless days past stand proof of devotion,
Or obsession – a defect of reason –
And whispers remain, reviving passion;
Resurrecting my sanity’s treason.
Thy voice is but a ghost, I do believe,Though cannot deny the words I receive.