I banished my muse
to mute-happy land
erased what I felt
and wrote what I knew
an epic that would have compelled you
to ****** my hair and undress
my identity girdled in crisis
something that would have unfurled
the fist of your heart
and pumped it with pulse
I wrote what would make you speak
But how many epics are there in our world
exiled in drawers and attics
versed in the ominous dust of the right time
maybe unearthed past the prime of their worth
if only to lure the lucre of royalty
to the unearther
With destinies lost in each others' translation
loneliness penetrates me like a ****** needle
for you'll never read
the epic I wrote for you

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