My Muse, Terrible

The Greeks called the chant.
A great sermon choir to harken the holy Muse
From her courts of flame.

Does she speak to me,
My white faerie whore
When I find my words, My smiles and those very
Notions of true beauty
Are lies,
Quiet witnesses to her fear that-
I might, nay do harbor what
She calls depravity?

When the weak wind blows I know
For then her words wind through my mind;
Those smirk stuck words choke
Every whistle what worries my wicked heart
And leave me atremble with furious guilt
And make it all worth while
     That I too felt the minute
     That I too knew her mouth
And hers would not know mine.

Kindly start them over, the lonely words of grace.
Kindly start them over, the hands upon the face.
We're walking in October down the stranger's line
And it's kinder to start this over than sing
     That same old rhyme.