Oh Beloved Muse
Fickle as Fortune
Diaphanous as Luck
Neglected so
Unshun your humble servant.
My thoughts are not mine…
My words
Usurped
by my heart’s turmoil.
This is my undying promise to you:
Tirelessly I will toil my way
Through to you….
seek your ephemeral blessings
pay earnest obeisances
At your temple threshold
I’ll engrave your haloed name
In every verse…
I write but
Not compelled
Not awoken
Startled by the force
To feverishly pen
What flows
What bursts forward
To be read
I do not wake
The words caught
Under breathe
Recited like a
Newly wrought prayer
Its power still new
Still raw
Still strong in its conviction
To be heard…
my muse
can hardly raise her heavily burdened head
chiding herself for not inspiring something all anew
there is only so much sorrow
to darken the day with
there is only so much joy to wet and wash it away with
and though sometimes
she paints a familiar theme
an oft defining scene
i am if anything a canvas
full of depth and blankness bereft
never left wanting
never left without
a touch of her healing colours
Dear, discouraging lump you’re a worrisome bump you surf you nuke you answer calls…
what more? what more?
is this what you wake me for?
another ranting raving
epistle
and I (small i)
your ever indulgent
vessel.
intotheindigo 