Having thus drawn the breath
Of inspiration by
Each sweet muse in her turn
And wrung the mountain dry
I turn to some other
Source of words which, flowing
From the harp of David
May bring meter, knowing
That inspiration comes
From mountains, rivers, light.
The strength of a poet
Is words crafted aright.
From Parnassus, then comes
The strains of strings so plucked
To feed the wordsmith life
As heartening milk is sucked
Just as wisdom from she
Who gives to us all things
Which lead to written words
And harps, players, and strings.
I draw from ancient myth;
From books I love so well,
Attempting proper love
Through stories poems tell.
postscript
Blah. I feel that this month has gone downhill. Which is kind of a play on words with the title. Bahahaha. Anyway. Maybe the muse will come back when I'm less ridiculously stressed.