poem of the day:THE MUSE SPEAKS


The muse speaks through these hands

These words are not mine to scribble

Twisted into nebulous shapes I don’t undersand

 

The muse raging, relentless

Rushing like fire in my bones

Boiling my spirit like the Vulcan’s forge

Wrought in the fiery coals of anger and pain

 I cast these words, hot like the dragon’s breath

 

The muse tender gentle caressing

Whispers stories of undying love

Imbuing my hands with skill to tell stories of my passion and dreams of care

As my heart flows through unending bliss

 

 The muse cold, unfeeling unflinching

Tells tales of sadness and visions of death

Shivering under the icy breath of the cold reaper

I am like a lost soul in the forlorn gloom

Penning the words amidst twisted shapes of doom

 

 

 The muse alive pulsing vibrant

Leads me into nature full of life

The forests full of joy and the parks green and gay

With the joyful chatter of playing infants

The muse pulls my soul into rapture

Like a childhood experience of a grassy picnic

 

And sometimes the muse unyielding

Leaves me alone to the art

Mocking my feeble attempts to express my thoughts

The muse, merciless, dams the stream

Leaving me empty

Struggling like a fish out of the water

 Haunted by nightmares of effort come to nought

 

These words are not mine to cast

They belong to the muse and to the muse alone

 

 

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