Words fly from my mind
To bury themselves deep in the page
But when the seeds spring forth
The fruit is abhorrent to my taste

I have plucked ten and five poems
Complete, root, stem, and branches
And have left no trace to ever be seen
My hideous children burning

But still my muse, the ever slavemaster
Continues to drown me with downpouring
Of words and thoughts and phrases
Though none will stick to the page

But run down in soggy lines of prose
And poetry, bred abominable bastards
Not to grace the eyes of humans ever
For the angels still weep too loudly

At the sight of the perversion
Of good and sound poetic feet
The tripping in this waltz
Curdles the cream within your bowels

And makes the world darker
And all this in a single night
The moon is a wicked cruel deceiver
To empower lover and monster equally