Muse, what a fickle, fractured, Faierie!
There is no waning poetic without her embrace.
She, true to women, leaves when I’m most in need,
Her scorn may last a minute or millennia.

Malicious, malignant contempt entwined in beauty,
Flip-flopping mother of manic depression!
Showering with flowing, flowering words,
As she erodes grain by grain my humanity.

Though the pain she wields incapacitates,
Existing without passion is justice not.
She gives and takes by her whims,
Sparkling eyes they conceal daggers.

Literature | Poetry

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