So asssailed

So assailed by the muse she took to his whip

Her bones soaked steeping in the hot bath

The tyrant beconed her to pen

Write more and more

 

Lasciviously he devoured her past and spit it on the sheet before her

He held her head when she tried to turn away

He fed the flesh from her

This journey had its way

 

The path gave no quarter

No clear marker to lead the way

The only way to know it

Was to see from which way she came

 

He laid her down to slumber

Just to wake her as the dreams returned

She felt as if on his spicket

Laughing he turned and turned

 

Stuffing cotton to abate the hearing

But it wouldn't save the lass

No the muse would have his way with her

From begining to the last

 

So assailed she wearily turned

Heard the pen, its wicked laugh

The book was writing her

Time for a warm bath

Reviews

[Rusty]

Go for it! I am honored.

[Liderien]

I want to print this and hang it in my office as a reminder of my service to the muse :)

[Rusty]

yes

[Liderien]

@ .me
that was an amazing comment.
@Rusty
I shall deluge these words and marinate the quintessence to its purpose.
That perhaps somehow the muse believes; that he could foretell the torment of designation of pen for the purpose of the greater deed.
I claim this as my own(not literally), is that ok??

[...]

. oh ... i wish the muse was amusing ... and not so fierce and evil ... it seems her life is in his hands ... and she is clutched by peril ... hopefully, the warm bath will refresh her and even replenish her soul ... and maybe she will clearly see ... his significance and role ... then he will become the catalyst ... that he was meant to be ... and each time she writes ... her words will set her free ...

. beautiful writing, dear poet ... very powerful poetry ...