Befuddlement!—my Muse

Follow me, unwieldy dreams!—
O’er unconscious ink,
Through Flanders Fields, each lined in reams,
To pivot on a brink.

My harp of gold Adonis hair
Has only left me mute;
My thoughts placed out in travels bare,
A scry that’s failed acute.

I’ve watched your holes—yes, pits agape
Were windows to my soul,
That poured upon, in every shape,
A lost, unseemly role.

Yet dry I’ve been in all of this:
The pouring and the draught.
An aimless mind has burned amiss
In every ingle spot.

To ply its trade with pigeonholes
Where ruined children play,
(Deploring practice in the night
Embracement in the day.)

All of our ruined Muse polis
Deluge upon debris
Of shipwrecked minds, in their solace
Were once sought out by me;

To stake a claim upon their earth,
Suspending my creative birth.