The Hour Of Criticism

I await thier criticism
while the Eidolon called night
on his throne sat up right.
Black, surrounded by bright distant stars
I wish upon.

As the moon with its cold pewter gleam
layed still and so did muse.

Amongst the nasty little surgeons
who cuts a verse to bits
in order to find what ills her.

From the waiting room with its drab gray walls,
I hear their words so cruel,
and smell the metallic scent of their breath.

Unseen are bloody hands
digging deep within her guts,
cutting, pulling and arranging, not adoring,
The beauty and message within her.

O' how I wish for the sympathetic touch,
great praise for art she is.

In the meantime, I pace and wonder and wait
on pins and needles, awaiting her fate.
But then within my pockets thought bare,
I find my leather face.

Tough skin in order to accept her faith,
perhaps a mask if she must die.

How frightening I must look to all the others waiting.
Them dressed in robes of worry, clad in clothes of regret,
in shrounds of rejection and suffering
from low-self esteem.

Pity I have not,
for I'm the ressurector, the Dr Frankstein of these muse.
They'll be no friends and lovers
slobbering and snotting over her grave.

When dreary rains of spring has ceased
and the hyacinths and irs riot,
the first sweet rose of summer will appear,
and so will muse for hire.