Ars Poetica

I know
In this solemn
Mood
As a little squirrel
Tapping on the branches
Waiting to jump
Poesy
Is standing on my fingers
But there is a slight
Mighty light issue
That my muse
Is but absent from my eyes
And in this doldrums
Of uneven chances and signs
I find myself
A petty little squirrel waiting to jump
But the muse won’t come
And I wish
I find my muse for me…

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