PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I thought she knew love would keep itself
no dust with that morning light
that muse who used to read me

and I wait for my muse to sing
to give me a taste of tasteful description
no more bitter taste

I wait for a sound
just a slight murmur
that cries for a voice

and cries
for an emotion that cannot speak
and I hear the dreams of my muse

they streak their way through the night
that time of light speed
a silver moonbeam

a shape of unearthly splendor
that desires nothing more than to be a wonderful dream
more than all of eternity

Dostoevsky might not have spurned me
as he rubbed at his beard
as he pulls back like a cold night on a Moscow street

but most nights, I just work the midnight shift
a seeming Universe
no more than that

a Multiverse within the apparel of darkness
that send me cynical kisses
to brood with me and my ideas

and Dostoevsky ventures out of the cold with Zeus's daughters
with the handful of wishful hopes
as I stagger on my poetry like so many cobblestones of ancient paths