Used By the Muse
Used by the Muse
Here I sit, after the holidays.
Everything is quiet,
and waiting for the big party,
to end the year.
Struggling on page 95 of a hopeful 220,
I am stuck, thinking of the past,
wishing for the future,
and trying to be alive for the now.
Poetry makes me happy,
or sad, let's be real,
it is heartfelt,
soul boggling and
warm like the sun,
cold-like the moon,
and frostbitten,
on the fingers.
The novel I struggle,
the prose much the same,
it is the rhythm and melody,
that dance differently,
between the lines,
to entertain and take
the reader to places;
wild adventure,
physics bent,
pretzels made for giants,
that do not eat sweets anymore.
And law(s) that is(are) just,
and unjust but spent.
96 is calling and bits of 200,
but in due time, all will be.
The Last Dance,
a romance,
for a man without a country,
between the good and evil,
of a world that no longer...
dares to care.
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