On the Death of a Muse

A man will vex a hope with hopes that drape
A muse in modern clothes and wanton hide,
She masquerades across an eye’s agape
Secluded ballroom floor where trueness died . . .
She replicates romance’s maxim flux
With taunting twists and dainty dips in-depth,
The floor is hers; she stomps to stamp a crux
Inside assailed eyes where threats protect . . .
A comely muse deceived the man in trance
Whose tattered tongue besought romance’s shy
Imprudent, expert, sterile, spacious dance
Where passion’s boon did drown in tragic eye . . .
A masquerading muse will dance till men
Eradicate their masks with truth and pen.