It is the lyre of an ilk, which has kept me here
Cupid has privileged my pen
sharpened arrows inked, stain across paper
soft materials shades of bugs and visitors
lovers who I have yet to meet
perched on grassy knolls
scribing love for Apollo to read
inhale choral poetry
these are orgasms
they are contained in words
he gets in, out, and off on them
I have tried once to wrap these scrolls around my neck
jump off a bridge and kill myself
I was caught by Pegasus, returned to my post.
This time I will polish Cupids arrows deadly
Send my cherub to the pasture for calming herbs
Shoot straight through my heart.
Love myself for a change.
