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Letters To Dead Poets; Chapter 1: To Homer and Mark Twain
What muse comes fourth
and in what form and creed?
I must admit, I am touched in the head
and my insides barren and sore
So shall today's seed be sown
or shall its fruit be harvest?
Shall this dry barren desert
once again become an oasis
a wellspring of infinite divine inspiration?
or today shall you be fickle and elusive?
Fraught with hazard and demanding payment?
Perhaps a self-immolation, or a broken heart?
or mayhaps just one of my arms shall suffice?
My fellow poets rejoice!
Oh what gifts they bring, insanity and more!
Chariots of plagues and stinging maladies of mind
Poets rejoice for the thunder of pain is upon us!
The muses loving embrace brings forth whisperings of agonies
The grandest heights of sublime joy!
And the quiet murmuring of our own unending sorrows
The time is ripe for harvest, but pluck with care!
For tonight's dreams are fraught with hazards
they bring tidings of irresistible magics
an odyssey into the grandest of divine palaces
and a view into the most nightmarish of hells
destinations of a sort to make the sanest men go mad-
and all this for just the low low price
of your humble friend here's sanity
Though they may yet regret bargaining for the sanity of a man who possesses none!
Copyright ©
Nobodies Nobody
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