Muse
All my best work
will only ever be seen
by your eyes,
Muse,
rolled off the edges
of your wet lips
unless, years from now
you show a blonde child
that tiny book
or whisper
‘I loved a poet once,
a hopeless dreamer.’
Asked what came of it
what fate befell
damp eyes
tell them I died
that flames consumed me,
how I froze one night
waiting in ice wind
for a dreamers kiss.
Not that I only grew grey
or that I simply starved
on empty plates-
not that poetry
is ungraspable
a drought mirage
(centsless slaughter-
I would sneer,
your eyes heaven high).
Make dreamers of them
let them believe in love,
like I did,
Muse
write poems for you,
like I did.
Michael Burrows 
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