Sonnet 7

I’m stealing time from Fate for to create:
But how I shall I fear I’ll never know.
I’m kneeling before Muses near prostrate.
O why morale like rotten fruit hangs low?
I long to let the art within my soul
Control a future of its own design
A song that’s locked away without parole
Cajoles the silent singer to repine.
I wonder how that song I’d ever sing
When Inspiration neither hums nor speaks.
I ponder: can I make a worthless thing?
Damnation!  Is all that Euterpe shrieks.
Herein I hope to find where calm notes dwell
Within the deepest darkness of my cell.

May 2018

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