The Muse

Can't you see it in a drowned man's vision
A little gape at the pawn shop window
Frosten truths thats served; uncalled for

The guide and the poet, ear to voice
The one who listens is the one whos dumb
The act of keeping cognitive whispers low

The riddled muteness; just wanting
Wanting to say something
Panting but still listening all that was said

And then comes the autumn wind
And blows off the colorful hiss
Piles drifted with the gusts of shapeless innocence

So the poet looks for a purpose
To rub words together and make meaningful
Thus is built a museum of distractions, his muse.

As the museum ripens in years and words
Fantasies, dreams, haunts and truths co-exists
In peace and as mumb as the poet himself.

So, there lies the place where I sleep.
In hush and in peace.

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