If only I could sleep
instead, my hand cramps
with the terrified mind
of a hurt muse
and prose falls forth
from soul to pen
and closes a Pandora's Box without hope
for small moments more
but with the writings true, comes fear
and ringing still. the notes move on
a slave to writing, to words
from soul to pen to prose
and fear is shown.
Fear is feared and knowledge dust
when a muse's mind cannot handle
truth of prose to pen to soul.
For I fear the words,
written for Truth and God alone
the terrified mind of a hurt muse never heals
and righteous wrong-doings always forgiven
The world spins
     Faster
          Deeper
               Wilder
and I see the changes
but with nothing to stop,
I sit back and write
My mind breaks further to fear
and closer to love
from heat and ice
and poseur poetry