O loyal Muse
you wake my senses,
set my moribund mind
to dreaming,
load my pen
with magic ink,

A smoldering consciousness
ignited by some vagrant ember
oblivious to the planets
or the possibility of gravity
whirls the weighted psyche
to great heights

beyond the tree line, beyond
the purple mountains’ majesty,
past all probability of reckoning
with reality —
that onerous consequence
of the dreary.

And just when I think
that long sought masterpiece
is within my reach,
you turn away
without a backward glance
and leave me stranded.

Sired by serf
or royalty,
it little matters,
so grave the malady
of the uninspired
who live without dreams.

Fickle Muse
with conscience lacking
you leave me bereft
and dreamless,  I should shun
your sure return,
but no doubt, I won’t.

 

 

 

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