An Ode to Muses to Kleio

Midas's Island

Your smile lit up the room and set it on fire,
Though it burns me, from it I never tire.
You walked in with a sense of purpose,
After everything you touched, gold would soon surface.
It's the color of your skin and the way your eyes film the world.
It's present in the dew of your lashes and the way your hair is curled.
Gold is the hue of tall flowers drawn with shades of the sun,
Your wires entangle around my thighs, beckoning for me to come.
Under my desperate pleas, it hardens, a sturdy bend.
I am made of malleable silver, so myself, I lend.
Much like Medusa's look does with stone,
Her victims, unlike yours, can no longer moan.
You wear emerald-green, tinted, glasses
And see my gray leaves in wetter grasses.
Look at me once more to set me ablaze,
So into me, yourself, you raise.
Don't be so hasty to let yourself too soon melt,
And watch me demonstrate how my name is canonically spelt.
You long for my ivory skin and the way my tongue lingers,
Grasping for my copper strands and the tips of my fingers.
You looked into the false emeralds of my eyes before the final throes,
While our vines become one entity, as I superimpose.
Then, you stopped your gentle stroke,
Leaving me with a wide grin and reason to mope,
I glowed with the gift of your luminescence,
While you took off your spectacles and washed yourself of my essence.
To have your beauty with real warmth, is asking too much of the sailor.
For you are not the sun, and yourself, you cannot tailor.
Turn me to gold you could not,
While you longed to be an emerald in my cot.
My vision appears cracked as we drift apart,
I too, wore false lenses, that I failed to outsmart.
I'll never have you to myself to overthrow,
For you are Odysseus and I am Calypso.