What cruel dreams spring forth from poet's mind
When time it has to wander free
Of bonds and see what it may see
In thinking on roads long left behind
Searching out their paths as though to find
Some secret way that yet might be.
O Muse, what agony thou doth inspire
By sending lines and dreams to view
Which serve to kindle hope a new—
Sweet hope, man's most deep and deadly fire—
And drive a man to reach far higher
Than else his goals would e'er construe.
Thou kindle flames which are wont to die
Yet leave no way to reach their glow
And find the love that they would show,
And yet through pain do thou bid me fly
With these crippled wings to gain the sky
That with each beat my pain should grow.
O fie! Thou wicked and hate-filled Muse
That bids me spend my night with tears
Which scour my soul yet feed my fears!
Thou laughing queen who strives to abuse
This slave-born servant whose life thou choose
To whip and bend through darkened years.
Are walls of man not torment enough
That thou must strive more pain to give
While in perdition's halls I live?
Must needs thy working e'er be so rough?
What need have thou of seeming so tough;
Do I my lines not gladly give?
Vile beast that tempts with voice of love
Yet keeps me on so short a rope—
Holding out the promise of hope—
But knowing that she'll ne'er be my dove
So long as stars can be seen above,
Thou bid me climb yon thorn-strewed slope.
Why ever do I answer thy call
When all that answer brings is pain
Between the words that fill my brain
When visit I thy punishing hall,
And e'er to temptation's torment fall
As taste I of sweet hope again?
Am I so much of a love struck fool
To think that she could e'er be mine;
That I my words do put to line
As though she might read by moonlit pool
The sonnets of this old heartsick fool
And drink of them like finest wine?
Does she not have a far better life
Than e'er I could e'en hope to grant
What fool am I my lines to chant
While in Hades' vault I drown in strife?
She'd ne'er be content to be my wife,
Yet still my Muse doth bid me rant.
Thou I in thy fever spin my rhyme
And yearn to kiss her lovely lips—
To rest my hands upon her hips—
There rings from between the words a chime
That echoes a song of hope in time
That her heart's scale to me yet tips.
Angela, 'tis thee my Muse doth show
To me when I my heart let sigh
For thoughts of love in future's eye;
The at my soul her darts doth she throw
When sings she of how Fate's wind would blow
To keep me ever from thy side.
Why ever must I suffer for love
Of she whose path is not my own?
Why must my Muse still pick this bone?
Why down this path must she push and shove
My thoughts while the Gods laugh from above
As though to wolves I've just been thrown?
Hearken, thou Muse, while I rail at thee!
Thy torments shall not break my soul
Or make me die here in my hole,
For through thy whipping am I set free
To search love's paths for what might be
And turn thee from thy warden's role.
See now, though pain doth still burn inside
When dream I of her tender touch—
And hope for it mayhap o'ermuch—
Still content am I to take this ride
Through these lines of foolish hope and pride
For dreams are all I have to clutch.
I bid thee, Muse, to sing yet thy lie
Of how my future life may be,
And do thy best to torment me
With falsehoods dancing in my mind's eye
And tempt my heart with the dreams I spy,
For in them yet some truth I see.
How in thy lies can I spy the truth?
For in her heart love yet lives on
And waits to rise as with the dawn
And seek in my arms its final proof,
As did it once in long lost youth,
For in her smile her love is drawn.
Ever doth she smile when we do speak,
No matter what her cares may be.
'Tis by this sign her love I see;
And so, though long, 'tis this quest I seek
To hold her once more—stand cheek to cheek—
And hope my love can set her free.
O Muse, what devilry work thou now
To give my heart such clarity?
I know that this can never be.
This dream is sweet and may show me how
To slay myself while chasing a vow
To quest for what's not meant for me.
But now I see that it's but a jest
To tempt me past hope's bitter edge
Then slam my heart as with a sledge
And make it to burst within my chest.
Yet on I do write instead of rest;
By turns through pain and hope I dredge.
My Muse, in good truth, is not to blame
For conflicts born inside myself.
'Tis only words drawn from a shelf
That gives she me as we play our game
Of stamping and then fanning hope's flame;
I bring this torment on myself.
For though I'd love to be in her arms
And take the chance that she'd choose me
O'er all the paths that she might see,
My mind sounds forth its warning alarms
And bids me not to dwell on her charms,
For she is not my destiny.
But, O, how logic fails me at night
When Morpheus deigns not to show,
And cold the winds outside do blow.
For ay 'tis then my fancy takes flight
And I dwell upon my sorry plight,
And write my lines by candle's glow.
Insomnia, thou tool of my Muse,
Why come thou now into my cell
And sound in me the poet's bell?
For all the rhyming lines I would use
(When I hear thy call I can't refuse)
Lead me back to the same old well
Where drink I ever of my hearts woes
While like a merry dancing elf
My Muse doth sing down from her shelf
And mock my pain while my rhyming shows
New paths on which she can point my toes
And bids me ay torment myself.
Ye Gods above me, hear thou my plea!
While I this sleepless night do scribe
These lines that at my heart do jibe:
No matter how loud my cry may be
Turn this torment not away from me;
Take no amount of offered bribe!
For 'tis through my lines I find my peace,
Though oft to pain they lead me first.
Without their work my heart would burst.
And cause this poor poet's life to cease.
These words from my pain do give release
And serve to quench my inner thirst.
Throughout dark's hours do I sit and write,
Pondering all that comes to me;
Wondering how the world may be.
If I had the means to set it right,
At least by the measure of my sight,
Would she the right love for me be?
O, how I crave the romantic dream
Of saving her from all her woes!
That's ay the way the dreaming goes.
Though by glaring light of day I seem
To lose the resolve that fills my dream;
Then once again the heart-flame slows,
Smoldering until her voice I hear,
Then off I go on poet's wings!
Now on my mocking Muse still sings
While I whisper lines to no one's ear
And revel on in my hope and fear;
How easy doth she pull my strings!
Yet I think that she e'en not may know
How deep these thoughts within me dwell
(Betimes I think e'en I can't tell).
For each time into their depths I go,
And yet no end do they seem to show;
As though they pour from endless well.
So write I on in endless refrain
Blaming my Muse for ev'ry line,
When all the while the blame is mine.
If dwell I ever upon my pain
What end to it can I hope to gain?
Yet pain 'tis oft' the poet's wine.
In truth, my pains must be good for me,
Better still when with love they mix,
And give me lines to stack like bricks
In rhyming towers of poetry
Writ for a love which may never be
Any more than a dreamer's fix.
If ev'ry man must have him a vice,
Then glad am I that this is mine.
For though I suffer line by line,
'Tis with glad hart that I pay the price—
In truth, I would hap'ly pay it twice—
To have such words on which to dine.
Sweet Princess, sleep as these lines wind down,
And hear the song I'd send to thee
Filled with the dreams of what might be.
If would from thy lips it keep a frown,
Then I shall ever serve as thy clown,
And hap'ly have thee smile at me.
About the Creator
Jason E
I'm a pagan poet just trying to make it through life without too much pain. I'm a lover of words and the world, a searcher for truth, a listener to the whispers on the wind.
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