08 Mar 2016 – Rubaiyat

My Muse’s bar bill grows. The barkeep knows I’ll pay.
Drink up, sweet sister! Anything to make you stay
and teach me all the names you know of hidden stars.
I know I’ll stagger home alone come break of day.

My friends call me a fool. They say she’s using me,
and dropping in all hours unexpectedly.
I just can’t help myself! I swear, I’ve tried before!
I hear my friends keep saying “act responsibly!”

A poet isn’t like a neatly potted soul.
He’s not the sort to sit and watch his veins run cold.
Fire is the wine he drinks – his only song.
Wrapped up alone in beggars rags the song consoles.