The Image of My Muse’s Rousing

March 17, 2018

I write until trying fails, each attempt begins to blur,

these un-built words come tumbling down.

My intuition has made another curse

as letters then return like rotted wood to ground.

Those fundamental moods of measure, absent in a cloud

always insist upon that old, iambic curse;

that cheap disagreement of all intemperate crowds.

Standing out from language, subtle suicide in verse.

I’ll make words like climbing fire, or as butterflies ascend.

Only in dead calm, I feel this truth within in my bones,

such writ should penetrate the essence, defend

life’s redacted thoughts that only I have known.

I alone correct the flaw with no ciphered meaning shown.

Instead, imbalance balanced, as if all of thought were May,

in one image or a word, of all these infinite knowns—

language is the only image of my muse’s rousing way.

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