I pray my muse will bear a heavy weight,
as cantilevered dreams of fifty years
come crumbling down, the poor-grade aggregate
made up of childish vision, youthful fears,
watered gruel of faith, reality
intended to cement what cinder-blocks
of present living I stacked shiftlessly
on half a slab collapses.  Time now mocks
my thoughtless, grandiose designs; its tide
sweeps what I'd have my future hold away
in universal undertow.  Aside
from inspiration, vision, words at play,
my muse has double duty to be borne:
a reason I should wake up every morn.