A Sonnet & My Muse

Embed from Getty Images


Do I wait for my Love, wait for this muse
To find me napping, or with pen in hand
Only to savour each whimsied demand
Where I shall be punished should I refuse

And should I refuse, yet follow her still
My muse may bless with an exquisite penance
The prick of her whip my arrant ebullience
Which fills my blood with a dubious thrill

And with this blood may I find the diction
To letter each name she calls in rapture
‘Fore I collapse beneath her exhaustion
Recording each wail she deems I capture

Dear Love, be merry; I came to my muse!
With a pen in hand, how could one refuse?


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s