These words,
strung together
with a delicate touch,
emerge from
your throat
       charmed, peerless.

Shrouded in a mysterious etymology
they move with the centripedal force
of mercury, all blood pulsing
       to gather in the heart.

Like syrup they flow
into my empty places
       filling me.

 

So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.
~Keats