I'm amused by
the muses that urge one
to flow until the
epiphany is done
Funny... No
but it strikes me as being odd
one experience results in a dry pen, while another
has us writing as if touched by the hand of God
A rose...certainly smells as sweet
by any other name
but that flower didn't get me to write of beauty
I had to see a faded leaf before the right words came
Or on the flip side, you'd think a death
would cause my ink to cry
Yet, it wasn't until storm clouds caught my eye
that I could scribe of the sorrow that leaked from my sky
And romance does not always fill me with
a yearning to describe the nuances of it
It's not the moon in June, but the mutual adoration
of souls, that emits the phrases that I covet
Surely would be simpler if those muses
could always be of our own choosing
But easier, is not nearly as interesting...
So...
What compels our pens to scribe
and what has our pens refusing
Just strikes me as odd at times...
Oddly, amusing...
the muses that urge one
to flow until the
epiphany is done
Funny... No
but it strikes me as being odd
one experience results in a dry pen, while another
has us writing as if touched by the hand of God
A rose...certainly smells as sweet
by any other name
but that flower didn't get me to write of beauty
I had to see a faded leaf before the right words came
Or on the flip side, you'd think a death
would cause my ink to cry
Yet, it wasn't until storm clouds caught my eye
that I could scribe of the sorrow that leaked from my sky
And romance does not always fill me with
a yearning to describe the nuances of it
It's not the moon in June, but the mutual adoration
of souls, that emits the phrases that I covet
Surely would be simpler if those muses
could always be of our own choosing
But easier, is not nearly as interesting...
So...
What compels our pens to scribe
and what has our pens refusing
Just strikes me as odd at times...
Oddly, amusing...