I sit here with a beer, near desperate
To hear clearly my disappearing muse
Though friendships end, I still depend on great
Thoughts sending, wending their way, splendid hues
That dazzle, hassle-free, castle-top views
That pass all puzzled muzzled logic's bounds
That grind of finding binding lines that fuse
The mind and blind feelings rhymed with such sounds
That emphasise the length and strength of mounds
Of penned ponderings, when will it then abate?
Not till the thrill is filled from which amuse-
ment spills, time's killed, my will is paid in pounds
Or dollars, while scholars follow my fate
Solitary fellows in yellow-lit pews
Tue 6 Nov 2007
No comments:
Post a Comment