Parnassus has called forth in beauty here;
Has made the voice to tremble for the end.
So come the words which echo, calling clear
For roads of poetry to twist and bend
Until there is a fork dividing ways:
First one unto the mountain peak for more
The other to a rest of many days.
Unwilling muse, what else is in your store?
Thus has the mountain thrust the poet down
Conceding 'tis enough to drink the air
For time and times determined by the sound
Of spirits overflowing, hearts left bare?
So has the mount of muses lost me, then.
I argue not, give forth, and drop my pen.
postscript
So ends my fifth year of NaPoWriMo, and only one hour (by my time) into the 30th day. Thank you to those who read. It was a good year.