Walkin on Air

Month of the Muse



Why, calendar months are surely drab
with times and seasons
like an itchy scab,
unavoidable as Earth orbits our Sun,
as Moon and Stars give reasons
certain as prayers of a nun.

A new thing will I do
in the world of my mind:
time away I shall shoo,
escape the daily grind.

Twelve months no more shall be found,
the shores of death no longer hound,
my inner spirit ne'er be bound;
live poetry rises from the ground.

Mundane days fill to make excuse
for a blistered soul
afflicted by abuse;
now rescued is from matters foul:
solace through worthy thoughts abstruse
are offered in the Month of the Muse!



Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
Month of the Muse

45,212 Poems Read

Sponsors