An Ode to Muses to Melpomene

Sleeping Poet

Spell out your middle name while rocking my slumber.

I have not garnered the regal status of Aurora.

Yet, I still trace the frame of your lips in my daydreams.

I practiced wearing blue undergarments for my suitors,

As did the tile of my bedroom floor.

I am indoctrinated to wear pink by your gaze

And encrust the surface of my skin with rubies.

I don't ask to wear your crown.

For that, you call me Rose.

You may ink poetry onto my skin,

So that I may always read your prose.

You sport black to slip past the guards,

As we merge our kingdoms,

Scratching marks on my back

And making a beast with both of ours.

The sounds echoing through these halls are not called music.

Yet, they bring pleasure to more than my ears.

A creeping smile melts the mask of your face,

A curve Lucifer envies,

That the angels honor with composed symphonies.

We'll meet on the holy day to discuss how we worship,

Where I'll capture your body by moonlight on my skin canvas.

I plead, speak to me in the language of your tongue

And break the etymology of mine.

I was never at rest and you charmed my cursed guardian.

You embraced her broken wings and slashed the thorns that pierced her scales.

She heard the melody of your soul on broken piano keys,

As she lit your cigarette while you served her the darkest of wines.

Now, you climb up into my chamber with ease,

Sketching my candlelight whims on these brick towers,

While dripping wax on my chest in the calligraphy of your signature.

By this yellow light, you recognize my crooked smirk

And dare not call me Maleficent's princess.

As you braid ravens' feathers into my strawberry locks,

I recite to you my aria of melancholy.

Then, you raise my chin to meet your tantalizing stare

And let me taste your smoke.

You gift me a necklace by mouth,

So that the empire knows where your flag waves.

It yields the crest of devotion and the bruise of possession.

These lyrics need not be translated.

As I wear them to bed, water does not wash away their potency.

Absence may make some still hearts grow fonder.

But I hope my living jeweler doesn't take too long to ponder.