To Muse, To Mistake

O, why must I convince my words she’s wrong?
In spite of all the wrongs I’ve yet to write?
It is not love, I know, though love does long
To spite the words I wrong and make them right.
If quills beget a muse, then quills won’t tap
The wanton lines where scribbles fornicate,
For muses widen interest’s narrow gap
And stains the options words could formulate.
I write of wrongs to rid of wrongs, for they
Deceive my verbose heart’s admired case
With words that fashion love a muse who preys
On words that speak of mind, and not of face.
Can I escape a musing’s fate as two?
Or watch her flee as one and I as through?