More than a muse

I fear in an agony
if you shall remain a muse,
become another set of poems,
of a sad old poet —
a classic tale, for me to brood.

I fear in an agony
of unpublished manuscripts
filling up my lonely room
while you dance away my
infected love for you.

And I pray you bloom
out of this saree of a muse,
let the draping drop, the shawl loose,
toss it away
and let your heart ooze.

Bare me your body, your soul, and your spirit.
I shall drink thy elixir
to sooth this madness for you.
To calm this illness of a diseased heart,
I seek in you, my heart’s refuge.

Too much of anything cannot be good,
but of you, too much —
it shall be never be
for I shall always be
hungry and thirsty for you.

Give me no more poems,
but those lips.
Quench this thirst,
and let this heart burst.

Give me no more poems
but your heart.
Fill these gardens,
and let thy flowers bloom.

Give me no more poems,
you’ll poison me with them.
Give me no more poems,
you’ll become my muse.

Give me no more poems but —
Will you be my love, O Dear Muse?