the muse[model]

the muse[model]

jealousy is the rhythm of this tale, to this minuet.
the story of the muse.
a hundred black keys lay hidden at her breast;
they are the children, the answers, the pages, the keys open the pages.
and doors,
keys open doors n'est pas?
tis true a muse must inspire, yet her hands are violently red.
she inspired a conductor and drove him down
in a dark red mercedes.
down the winding path to the Wington Estate,
a house of glass and glories past.

her temper is fast,
her mouth dripping with hurt,
hers is the only key she doesn't own,
is it irony?

other keys she hides, their lives she takes
and one by one she drowns them,
one by one she becomes their muse.
through sheets, whispers, ink, and blind faith.
laying lives on the glass table two hours before supper!
Wington's silence ruined her game, so she fumed,
and lit a cigarette.
she says there is no fun in a prayer, no truth in the truth,
time holds no meaning,
she would rather count cards.
this is her world.
with her sharp finger she throws the aces into the holes in the ceiling
and makes the moon spin round-
faster than she or I can take, and so the sky did shake
until the moon fell loose and sunk deep into the lake,
Wington has lost it's light.

This is her chessboard,
the sordid game -I never did care for it- they say she was a grandmaster.
how did i end up here on an ivory square,
raising my skirts for the knight and running my scepter through the queen of hearts,
her hand running through my hair in a stiff stroke.

why does the philanthropist love this flashy harlot?
why does the philanthropist drink brandy from the mouth of his demise?
why does the philanthropist want the muse?

each question can be answered in time.
the muse is wise mon cher,
so consider this a red letter, that Wington is heaven no longer.

she drinks madness as bright as her eyes,
like candy canes she eats the skies.
her beauty is her poison, keys shift and clatter in her dress
while she dances through the gardens stuffing roses in her lay away box.
like death she is the maker, though many a man would take her
twice as much as they would eat.