Scheherazade

In some ways I am luckier

It is not every night I must

Distract a glut’nous mind with what

Few dreams I have to spare

I try to picture daily dread

Imprisoned in those perfumed silks

Awaiting night, and knowing I

Must lay my soul to bare

For her a lord whose mercy came 

When pulled forth by a tale untold

Whose hand was stayed by fear that he

Might lose a journey’s end

That overseer for all his cruel

And careless wants, still seems to me

A figure of some sympathy:

I too mourn tales unpenned

My own Shahryar is hardly king

To dwell within my sorry wreck

And his decrees have need of my

Lone thoughts to prey upon

Yet still I feel Scheherazade

Would find some kinship in this room

Where now I sit and scatter script

So I might see the dawn