sitting here i struggle to find the words,
which convey thought and context.
but my mind's eye has a vision,
which i fail to understand or discect.
leading me to a course of verse without fail,
the words flow like a flood my hands rush.
but to whome were these phonetic strands meant,
surely not I with thoughts fallen hush.
but just who has guided me to utter such speech,
wrought, bold, with minor discontent?
no, not discontent, necessarily, perhaps trite contort,
morbid fascination with the being i've now lament.
conversation now as voices muse through my mind,
i feel something tug slightly at my soul's anchor.
but these calls to which i do not answer,
only send this harpie into an unwanted anger.
so is this what i write now to be the last i shall conjure,
a brief thought, a momentary laspe of reason.
shall i not know to this or other things which i muse,
as now starts the time of the harvester's season.
first to reap, first to be cut,
i see myself from the outside now.
my body a puppet controlled,
i can't begin to contemplate how.
lead like a dog on the leash,
muzzled and muted my soul without flesh.
i am mastered and controlled with pleasure,
by the muse with whome i am meshed.