The poet’s muse
Wears down at heel shoes
And sleeps
And weeps.
Yet, in his poem she is beauty personified
Who never cries.
And when she and the poet dies
She may live on
Through future ages,
Preserved midst the pages
Of some book.
Though she be gone
Readers will look
And see a perfect view
Where no muddy shoe
Was ever worn
And no heart
Was ever torn.
Or perhaps his art
Will be true
To his readers
And to his muse
In her muddy shoes.
The attraction
Of an abstraction
Holds the reader’s attention.
There would be dissention
Where I to show my muse,
Soaked in booze,
And guzzling pub grub,
And her shoes
All covered in mud.
I think
My readers would
Say “You do your muse confuse
With a girl sozzled in drink”,
Then, continuing with a wink,
“Morris has lost his marbels, poor old chap,
What a sad mishap!.
Or perchance he has taken too much wine
And thinks a girl divine
Who (one must confess)
Has no idea how to dress)!
Shall I break the spell
And tell
The truth about my Muse
Or would she her mystery lose?
I do maintain
That the abstraction
Of an attraction
Should continue to reign
K Morris - Poet 