Warrior-Poet cried and warred,
He crashed his sword against scrivener’s board,
The signs had been clear: Persevere,
Yet, Her pained words He heard, quite crystal clear.
Far away, Kalliope wept.
Reciprocated, warmness slowly crept,
Beneath to hide.
Days, flittering moments to a Muse,
Kalliope’s heart ached from this misuse,
Warrior-Poet’s Heart issued demands,
He longed to hold Her alabaster hands,
His best, he tried.
Kalliope flashed before Him,
“Friends? The pieces of Me, you adored them!”
Her Wrath and Pride.
Pale, Warrior-Poet took a knee,
“That is still Truth, My dear Kalliope.”
Sword, set aside.
“Do you not wish to hold my Heart?”
Implored the Muse, “Truth, I beg, impart!”
Sun washed Warrior-Poets grim face,
“I Swear upon the Dancers’ spin through Grace.”
He softly cried.
Clarity struck Kalliope, profound,
“You do wish my Heart? You whisper, it pounds.”
His tears, she dried.
© All rights reserved, 2016.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.