This is my muse: g: sheer magnificence

I’ve read much outlined beauty, of muses fair faces, and countenance, purity, mild-

Sunlight in a green garden, with tea, and a portrait of a pretty virgin lady,

I’ve seen Swinburne and Baudelaire, down on their knees, at villainous harpies

Even tho you be both, so your muse is greater, your beauty a flawless diamond,

And I’ve never encountered you in all the works of literature – hidden in your brow –

Intelligence; mixtured aspects, words that could be any colour, multifaceted

Looking back at me, in your own poetry, wicked laughter a scalpel to cure,

Hues of love shine thru, sparkles of lesbian desire, twins cut in similar angles together

Strong, quick to flame, with heart pure, prisms pulsing thru an intelligent woman,

And a beauty which, catching words in her pure form, is like the magnificent

Having to explain itself to something inferior, my poem, a counterfeit, to your

Intelligence; my words reflect, i outline a sketch, to show my stupidity, my inabilty

To portray, I give up, put my books down, and write poesy as held up to the sun,

A light to capture therein, but beauty can’t be caught, i hold a moment, when studying

Those intelligent eyes, clear, as love in a diamond speaking, fleeting: literatures meaning