If Not Mood, Muse Mars

To him caught in Cupid like passions No signal cautions, none's warning red; He who pursues passion, life's lessons, Forgets sleep and comforts of the bed; Like a glutton intent on eating, By fine dine, taste nor yet time he's led, Sheer passion seems what he's pursuing, No fine sense to him seems so sacred. Poets pregnant with a poem long piled, Want nothing but deliver their child. Those not keen to pen a thankless piece, Not whatever their stupor can shed, No motivation seems enough bliss, And if not mood, the muse hampers head. __________________________________________ Tongue-in-cheek | 06.12.14 |