Poet In Me Speaks

My muse, amused, spins wildly 

With unbound hair astray 

Across the meadows of my mind 

Leading me away. 

Unruly, this sweet thought is caught 

Between logic, love, and ryhme, 

Between a rythm and a step 

To which I can't keep time. 

She beckons coyly from the green 

To traipse though turf untrod 

To be the Lewis and the Clark 

Upon my own mind's sod. 

A paradox of melodies, 

Her song's a maze of mystery 

That leads me to conclusions 

That began our mortal history. 

This wild Eve of wisdom 

It dawns on me is doomed 

By spaded suits of players cursed 

Who have our notes assumed. 

Little do they know the game 

Is far from table-laid 

As yet the joker's prancing 'round 

And still has to be played. 

But then again, the King is, too, 

Both ominous, poised, and free 

To avenge his shuffled, scattered deck 

Of thoughtless tyranny. 

Our Jericho of jealous faults, 

This fragile paper wall 

Will be the Berlin of our death 

As heart by club we fall. 

Just as briefly as she came, 

Just as swiftly does she leave, 

Echoing unmarked questions now 

Whose answers I must grieve. 

This muse is fickle, just as I, 

Though enchanting when she comes 

And waltzes, tangos, sways, and swings 

To my palpitating drums. 

For in her frenzied fantasies 

I seem to often find 

A diamond in the rubble 

Of my blithely simple mind. 

When that occurs, that instant gem, 

When my muse that knowledge seeks, 

I find that is the moment best 

When the poet in me speaks.