Muse
written by: Carson Pytell
When Caedmonic catalysts but short walks bequeath
and splendor is found in just the sound of some leaves,
and inurement to rain comes to contentment and calm,
scour the pen of its crust.
For wind, as an ode’s choice line, gives goosebumps out like soup
and war feels faintly less like Hell when birdsong strikes the troop,
and sinking suns backdropping lakes, even from the tail,
rip from the frigid, unappeased, a fated, sated feel.
Some spare paintings focused fair, to their causes of pauses akin,
some grey Greeks equated nature out with, made simple, nature within,
because art is fake and foretold about but people and their ways.
A schmaltzy sonnet on paper goes, a scratch on stone remains.
Even the jolly swagman, from the sturdy Baobab tree,
has found, when he’s unsheltered, shielding biomimicry.
It doesn’t take much sweat to grasp, to seize this pikestaff truth,
but, still, because we’re blindly vain, they spit out portraiture unamused.
