Walkin on Air


Did you suppose
in literary spheres
Lord Byron would disclose
his intimate fears
instead of erotic desires?

Have you one who admires
the essence of your id?
One that might deserve
a tantalizing hors d'oeuvre
not having to pay even a quid?

Is what you wanted to say
in poetry's musical vents,
expressed to others' dismay
with subtle yet direct intents,
the same as the reader absorbs?

Now then, what is the sum of poetry expressed:
brilliant or glum and to whom addressed?
Our muse is she our own or does she belong
to our readers and singers of our song?

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