Bring her to that former state of intimate inspiration.
Oh she is still beheld lovely,
And divine;
Perhaps perfected still,
Though rotten at her core.
But his sight is no longer illuminated
With the spark of ideas received,
Conceived from wanton gaze.
No, no, no- it is dead as stone,
Perpetuated at the spot
Where her pedestal became a throne.
Whence it commenced-
This catastrophic transformation?
Ah, at the point of his folly:
When inflicted with one vulnerable wound, one self-induced,
Desperate and pained, he cried out for aid
No longer desiring a kindled mind, but healing.
And she in so loving him, uncorrupted still,
Cleaned and mended and restored
Him to the man of former might.
Thus began his plight, innocently enough.
For when she tasted his blood,
Her knowledge and power grew.
New and dark was her way-
She, feeding on him,
And he, forced to obey.
Deceptive and beautiful, his
Muse became a treacherous siren.
Folly inspiration.
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