The muse disappeared last night,
lost himself in a forest of sinew and muscle,
worked his way into the meat of a core compelled.
He roams amidst the others, gray faces, damp clouds,
holding court with decaying illusions
and constant children aging only into adolescence.
Mercurial apparitions dominate this house,
shapes of strange geometry,
ethereal sound, misspent chances.
The muse lacks enchantment, now,
and the empty heart of the universe howls.
YOU ARE READING
Poems for Peculiar Children
PoetryThis is a second anthology of my more whimsical and curious poems. They aren't so much for children, though anyone can read them!
