TBD.

What can Apollo's lyre claim to if his
Fiery arrows hit plated breast and fail?
His notes falter against my ears' deafness
But yet, where his bow falls your smile prevails.
Your curve breaks ice, noiseless screams.
Her song, oh muse, takes His at best and turns
the arts to basic juvenilities.
Her hand demands my heart and mind to churn
(My own trivialities, as they are, in her honor).

In your silent curvature, caressing lips
miles apart and fingertips holding
hearts and stops, words poetic flow
from ear to ear within, between...
filling miles, and connecting plots.
Your silent song, and second long
graces, plucking inner songs
of perfect time, of perfect beat,
of perfect memory.

Refrain, pauses, lingering looks
emptied of cause and purpose-
locking eyes to drain disdain
and filling smiles
with clasped hands.

This is her art, muse, triumphing
mine.

This is tribute to her eyes
to her soft palms
hearts of earthen lives.

Tonight Dionysus rules this life.
And alone, her hand if perfect, just far
serves my own indulgence.
I slip in decadence, and inability,
to serve my own end with her own tribute.