By experience I was shown
with the lowest blow
that to the god of Poesy
and all beloved muses,
as sign of worship or courtesy
prayers are, alone,
no longer enough.
As it seems, they enjoy the bluff
always taking more than giving
in so little mercy
requiring even more
than heart and soul -
all I claim to be
to take me to my goal.
Causers of such sore
when the whispers fade
wiped in torture of the mind
if not obliged right on their time
and every quiet kept.
I have learned they also desire
my whole world,
however grand or small;
love written in blood
with eyes wide open
to any meaning acquired -
if not felt or given,
I was told I shall fall.
Images, words,
colours and sounds
handed over, then shifted
to trespass all bounds
and make me slavish
of sorrow and beauty
to take as my joy,
my very wish.
Without it, who am I
but cuts and bruises?
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