fallen verses

Midas

I sit, saturday morning, staring into a bowl of cereal,
watching milk inevitably win the battle over crunch.
Idly my spoon helps one side, then the other;
neither likely to be eaten: every mouthful
turns to bitter ash once it passes my lips.
Gold or ash or any other substance, the
curse remains the same.

You have cursed me, you honey-tongued sorceress,
for my greed and daring. For the crime
of tasting your lips - sweet like ambrosia.
For the crime of touching your hand,
my grasp only finds empty air.
Sweet witch, I beg you, release me-
free me that I may transgress again.