Just when I thought my muse had left
a splintered staccato formed words on a page;
seems I still have a taste for the treble clef.

Haste in the morning fuels the morning breath
for two lovely dumbstruck lovers looking young for their age
just when they thought their muse had left.

I’m not sure I remember the rest;
The words stop like drumsticks dropped in rage,
but I still have a taste for the treble clef.

Desperate to try as my cousin suggests
burning through candles,  tarot, and sage
just when I’m sure my muse has left.

I vote for stripping this verse and shredding the rest
Getting in with producers and out with the wage;
We still have a taste for the treble clef.

Tequila sunrise and a Mumford sunset;
Is freedom a ***** once you’re out of the cage?
Just when I thought my muse had left,
seems I still have a taste for the treble clef.

It feels like sinking,
like I ripped open the emergency exit door at thirty thousand feet
mid-flight.  mid-sentence-
last chance.
Now I'm told to sit tight,
knuckles white with nothing to hold onto.
Nobody steers, nobody stirs,
save a couple slurred words past an in-flight Jack.
That's what it feels like-
it feels like sinking.

A genie of wizards paid tribute to me,
he granted me wishes, as many as three.
As I stammered and struggled to think on my feet
I shuddered and stuttered a wish or three:

You insist that I wish, so I ask you for these:
A taste for my belly
a kiss from Kelly
*and a reusable, snoozable nap if you'd please