The Poet. The Muse

You are not the lover
Just the new muse
And a faceless delight
You are the poet's pain
Not the desire

Love is knocking pretty hard
But the door is already ajar
Dreams are cluttered
And the vision is blurred

Let the poet sleep for a bit
Let the chaos spread some more
The night is way too long
And there is way too much hope

Let this just be a tryst with words
Feelings, as you say, are flimsy
And the poet, I hear, isn't feeling well