Muse Of The Mountain

Where have the echoes of you gone?

Those phantoms of melodic breath, the way your words

Permeated my brain tissue

Each poetic anomaly

Unspoken pages who, despite their silence

Were resonant in their mute appeal

To my animal nature

Slid your hand as a lover does

Into the back pocket of my genes

Smiled a Cheshire grin

Whilst I, mousy poet that I was

Transfixed by your predatory persuasion

The way your eyes

Gleamed with feral moonlight

Lay myself down on your white sheets

To become your metaphor, embody your ink-stained madness

“How many angels dance on the head of your pen?” I asked

“Only one,” you replied

“Only one.”

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