The Muse By John Lars Zwerenz

THE MUSE I shall leave the city, the bustling town. I shall walk to the outskirts of the wild plains, And drink from heaven mystic rains, Lying in the reeds, drunk upon the down. My shoes are worn, of coats I have one. I am a martyr of the furrows and the fields at play. I live for adventure and the brilliant, gilded, golden day, Come the weeping moon, or the soporific, gleaming sun. I have in my pocket a notebook I keep. I wield it come the dawn, along with my flask. I compose florid verse, a vagabond’s task, Beneath the blue sky, where the angels sleep. I drink my wine after rhyme and prose, In the flowery cradle of a garden-close. I am struck by visions beside the lane, On warm, autumn nights, at one with the rain. I take my dreams for what they are: The flow of ethereal, lavender seas, Which rise to every astonishing star, Swallowing their ecstasies. I hallucinate when rainbows pass. I am a symbolist, a saint. My pages are my canvass. My stanzas are my paint. O, muse, I have been faithful to you! - On trains, on foot, in poverty, I have brought down the sky and raised the sea! I have resurrected gold to its rightful hue! As an alchemist I have perceived the wondrous blending Of blue and red gems in unions never-ending. I am the world’s greatest scholar: All mysteries are known to me. The forest is my exquisite parlor; The firmament: Infinity! Every brook is romantic; all my kisses are of fire. My lover’s name is Mary; there is music in the marvelous sun! To paradise I aspire, To the bliss of everyone! John Lars Zwerenz {C} 2018