Muse of Hearts

 

When a woman loves, 

  Is that the space her dreams go to die? 

To be hollowed out and eaten alive? 

What right do I, 

  Muse of Love

 

  What right do I have left to try? 

Hasn't it been boared out already? 

 Hasn't it been made delinquent, jaded, 

    and unworthy of the very prize 

       Of which I've sought? 

How could a love delve so deep 

  Into the infinitesimal hell-

    A psychology of love's torture, 

And come out still believing, 

  Let alone, come out worthy 

    Of the Heaven she's sought?

At every seem, I am singed. 

  And no...

I do not know what to make of love. 

I no longer know what it means, 

  Even through means of me. 

I can no longer make sense of a thing, 

  Having to do with it at all. 

Is it a trade off? 

  A deal made business? 

Is love as we use it, to marry?

 Is that even real? 

  Perhaps not for the muse of hearts. 

Perhaps not at all. 

  Isn't it just like her though, 

To only ask these questions 

  After the fall?