Let my muse hide in his blanketed darkness.
There are slumbers to attend to,
Nourishment to tend to,
Tastes to be brewed in sleep
Far more enticing than my rickety poetry.
In the deep dungeons of words and stanzas
Where I walk around, nude, barefoot,
Itching to burst over, in the helter-skelter
Of unruly winds, the muse has been trampled over,
Bleeding, drowned in soot,
Hungry, like a child wailing, for acceptance.
Words of praise hovering around like fireflies of light,
Evaporate into thin air at the next bend of the road.
For now, I want my words, buried dead
Under the avalanche of nondescript public clutter,
Of the sordid paths paved for our recycled days.
I know my muse will speak to me again,
The dingy language of rhythms and blank verse,
Etched out through the lovelorn streets
Where I will wait for him, dreaming, forlorn.
Pix from Net.