No eloquent soliloquy
escapes the blur of wine this day
no woodwind corps of troubadours
peace my soul with flawless scores.
No spring wind chimes in fragrant climes
caress my ears in four-four time
the sounds of grace have been erased
oh, how I long for their replace.
No feathered touch of feathering brush
breathes a life to an evening thrush
the canvas fades, the inkwell dries
immortality thrashes and dies.
Velvety moonlit ponds and brooks
Quench the modern melancholy
Of electric brains near insane
From consumeristic folly.
No summer’s airs ease my cares
the words seem weak, a pauper’s share
the poet’s breeze begins to seize
now still, once rustling autumn leaves.