Museings

What kind of justice can there be
_both day and night they invoke me
Goad me on to grant the power
_to describe a shabby wild flower
Each time I settle down to rest
_another poet calls me yet
And there I go to float above
_to find a rhyme for someone's love
My clothes are wrinkled. My hair is blown
_all parts of Earth have I been thrown
Sent to help those in distress
_and make sense of poetic mess
I work my fingers to the bone
_maintaining style and verse and tone
But when the piece is finally done
_the poet alone stands in the sun
I gather up my pieces and rustle out the door
_No more!
If a poet should need another rhyme
_I won't come so easily this time
The brooding intellect should strain
_and work it out in their own brain
It's not as easy but they will see
_They will get on fine with out me
It's too much work for this tired one
_As far as I'm concerned my work is done
I've packed my things. I'll ne leaving soon.
_The time is right for this tired plume
If you are a poet please do not call on me
_Cause even I do not know just where I will be
Sharpen your with, your mind you should use
_and leave me alone. I am one overworked muse.


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