INTO THE BREACH
I sit alone to muse and ruminate,
My pad and pen poised, ready to record
Whatever words my drowsy wits afford.
Not far from Nod, the seat of nightly dreams,
My lyrical imagination teems
With notions longing to find voice and form,
And I must deftly choose from all that swarm
The most melodious and meaningful
With charm and wittiness enough to pull
An auditor from beat to beat and rhyme
To rhyme, in hopes of reaching the sublime.
Sometimes I make discoveries of import;
Most times, however, I fall short.