desinence

Noone ever talks about waning Poetic.

The moon

he waxes and wanes and noone

not anyone

gives it a second thought.

And who is more poetic than he?

for the poet,

waning poetic would

lend itself to the syllabic equivalent

of beating a dead horse.

The muse demands her lover wax poetic;

she entices,

the way she wears her hair in

sullen, crisp moonlight

(tonight that moon is waning, nonetheless, but I digress)

she never opens herself up to

any sort of fading or fleeting lyrical nonsense,

because the muse, let’s be honest,

is just drawn that way.

Muses love and leave but

in the getaway the

wordsmith usually finds themself

hungover or

worse

hung.

over.

with no time to outline her escape.

and so they tend to

wax on and wax off and

wax away…

growing ever into deeper brushstrokes

that tint her emotion in vivid colors that

leave no doubt in the mind of you, dear reader

as to where his heart will land

meanwhile, the growth ends;

the words come to a screeching halt,

at some unknown given point where

he believes, if just for a moment,

he has caught her grace in a web of words and

she will smile profusely when next she calls his name.

The ending is the thing,

its waning is the climax:

the halt of this

process in its ultimate and

un(timely)

finish when the words wink:

one final stanza nudging the reader and

the poet

and the muse-

assuming all of them

are in on it