What comfort is flowing peace in my heart
when I hold a still pen in my hand,

with blank pages before me without needing
ere over-tumbled pyrite to anew pan?

Why must open blue skies pass to an eternal gray shroud
for me to sing the over-cruel elegy or over-due praise

of the then over-fast set as most garish ever envisioned
yellow sun’s fool-warming over-golden-cast rays?

Why do private trails of green fields turn only to wild rubied meadows
emeralds deep when sorely back-turned to a closed path?

Or predictable bursts of cold rain not fall to savage tempests
poor-weathered if not hung to arid dry in a fatalistic aftermath?

Must a tortured mind and soul crack and bleed
for my immortal ink to spill too freely out?

Surely there are less costly other muses out
lurking kindly there and gently about.

Filled pages of half-witted couplets for a sapped full sap’s next
taxing errand is my mapped trade route to chart,

but what solace is a flowing pen in my hand
when I don’t hold still peace in my heart?