Musings of a Disenchanted Muse

Who told me not to dream?

You did.

Then you went on to place

A bright, lovely star

Impossibly high

In a lackluster sky,

And I sat and watched

The rise and fall

Of a dream

That had no place

For me.

It fell,

But, for a time,

You did enjoy its ascent.

So-

I thought I saw a tiny star

In a small sky,

Because if you could afford to dream,

So could I.

But you focused on the size

Of my small star,

And I was paralyzed,

Unable to push it

Higher.

So

I decided

That dreams are for children.

Oh, I smiled at other people’s stars,

But I lived quite well

Without any

Of my own.

And then you exlained that

Dreams are practical,

At times,

So.... practically, of course....

I began to dream

Again.

But I forgot that your dreams

Rise and fall

With the wind,

And

Suddenly,

The wind changed,

And you quite calmly advised me

To stop dreaming.

I was hurt,

At first,

By you and the wind,

But then I remembered that if a star always fell

At the first sign of a storm,

There would be no stars.

And there are.

There’s nothing to say,

anymore,

because you can’t hear me;

The wind hears me,

and it answers,

though only in a

whisper.

Why can’t you hear me?

I’m not speaking of words-

Anyone can hear words-

I’m speaking of

what I thought you knew.

I could quote volumes

that mean nothing.

I’ve done it.

But beneath it all,

Beneath all the words,

There’s a place which has

no use for verbal images

and trite expressions-

even for reasons.

It just is.

We all have our own worlds,

our own realities.

We know they may not be

“socially acceptable”

or even socially real,

And that’s why we need the words....

Because our private worlds

make us

who we are,

And we’re afraid that others

will refuse to accept who we are,

and will question

why we are.

I don’t know

why I am,

So I couldn’t tell you....

even if you could hear me.

Who needs

A muse?

Won’t she just

Confuse

You?

Few

Of us

Have learned to sing our own songs

Well....

Tell me,

Did you learn every word,

Heard

Every beat

Of the song of your youth?

Truth:

Youth

Is its own song,

Right

Or

Wrong.

Learn as you sing

Along.

But age....

Isn't that when we need

A sage

To make the verses

Rhyme?

Time

Should not march on;

It should flow

So

Each verse makes sense

Of events,

And places,

And friends.

It all

Depends,

Though,

On the rhythm you choose.

Use

From what you’ve learned;

You’ve

Earned

The right

To sing off-key.

Me?

I’ll ask my muse to sing along

With my own life-inspired

Song.

Though disenchanted I’ve become,

I know I'll never quite

Succomb

To being satisfied

(Nee': "numb")

With little more than status quo.

No.

My song will

Grow,

And so will I.

Why?

I learned to improvise

A song

A long

Time ago.....