Harm None

Dear muse, on high...whose ways, we, seemingly, defamed; where arbitrary idleness is fashion...have we prayed and cried, and have you stormed and stomped the golden halls, of thy mansion...refusing to be brought down? Yet, who are we , that these words pour forth, ever, but for thy commission? We are only empty instrument by thy design. So, why silence thou, these poets, here, these many years, then bring they on...whose audience is proud and vain? If we, but mortal, in the mortal realm...why fear thou, if thy words be known of men? Art thou afraid to love...again? If not, then, sow your mortal, love, that man may suckle of the nectar, of thy truth...that poetry, no longer relevant, be authorized...upon this shameful  place. Are we then lost, and you have cast away the little ones? In all good faith, goddess...rest from harrying thy poets, who attest, with all they have, to only truth, upon your mercy, please...for god sake, please.


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: By John Martin, early 19th century, The Bard