Limitations

The muse

He sends me no thoughts at this time;

Neither complex riddle nor sweetly rhyme.

No floating clouds, nor rising mists,

And ne'er a thought to climbing schists.

How silent be the shaded bowers

That oft times sang to swaying flowers;

Or braided, woven, curling vine

That sleeps amid the noonday shine.

Gone; the deserted shore with shells arrayed,

Where ghosts of plovers safely wade.

No winsome nymph of golden tresses

Who shyly to her beau confesses

With dewy eyes of adoration,

Undying love and dedication.

He knows my strength and limitations

And therefore limits my frustrations.

My quill, dried of ink and starved of paper

Screams attention, demands a caper,

But I, stretched to capacity, have no eye

For idle quills that sit and sigh.

I owe to one full dedication,

Total love and consideration.

So hush my quill, in patience lay,

For I cannot give you time of day.