The Tortured Muse
Upon the wrinkled brow perception has it's way
while smoothing out the lines and worries of contempt
which almost always make their mark then yearn to stay
If only we could find ourselves, alone, exempt
And yet I find that strong obstruction has it's cure
in all the power that we beg to circumvent
when all we find in resonance we find is sure
and love is burning on the fringes unaware
as soft as dawn and racing onward toward demure
I'm sure that worry has it's better even share
and we will walk in whispered hands forevermore
and yet I find that in my haste I can't help care...
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