I suppose it is eventually inevitable
for a poet to run out of novel ways
of squeezing beauty
out of their pains.
Sooner or later.. we all bleed ourselves dry.
Even the deepest weeping sorrow finds its end
once we’ve run out of tears with which to cry.

Once our pain runs out of all its beauty..
What remains there?
Only wisdom, truth, and duty.
I am wiser now.. for knowing to follow my heart.
Against the sound advice of nearly everyone..
I did The Devil’s duty.. and I do not regret it.
I left my mark on people.. some will never forget it.
I get to sleep now, knowing that I did my humble part.
And though it got me nowhere..
Getting somewhere never was a purpose for my art.

Truth is..
My purpose was to capture someone’s beauty
in a way that no one ever did before for them..
in a way that no one else will in the future,
probably ever again.
It’s not a sort of gift that one could ask for lightly
and certainly not of a sort that money could buy.
For love cannot be bought and sold..
True love is only ever freely given.
The only motivation by which it was driven..
Was just how good it felt
for me…
to be near them,
to behold them with my naked eyes,
to hear them..
By the ache and longing that I felt,
when for too long we were apart.
By the ceaseless torment of knowing..
That I could never truly win their heart.

Alas, my agonizing beauty
now becomes mundanely agonizing..
but also beautifully mundane.
Just like Sol itself..
which still riseth, without failure,
every single day.
Still I feel its gentle warmth..
When I am fortunate enough
to find myself beneath its light..
And still I long for it upon a lonesome,
dark and moonless night.
Alas.. it’s time for me to find another beauty to amuse.
It’s time for me to find.. another muse.