(Draft 2)

The only lover who ever touched me was the Muse,
with its pornographic imagery flaunting impossibility -
but its asexuality stroked me
while all the other lovers were too distant or
imaginary.

And so I drowned in its song,
in the waves of insanity that crucify sound
minds.
The Lover is that maddening melody, rising
and receding in waves across the windblown page.

But that Siren, the Muse, subdues passion with rage,
pulls my hand,
obliterates lust with desire,
and while time passes unseen I miss my life for its dreams
as the Muse continues its dance.

It is a lie that Artists are born with Chance,
born crippled and chained.

And who would take my other hand, unfettered by the Muse,
understand that comprehension pulls us farther apart?
Who would dare to love the absence that is me?

But enough of the brooding.

You must know: the worst of it is over, for we are young,
undone before we've begun.
Because no matter the depth or the distance,
or the time spent staring into the sun,
the Muse will always have my ear.

And who could be the one
to dig deep enough to release me from the Muse's sphere
that wraps itself around me in the sand?