Here I am at the beginning again.
I found myself here thinking I was going the right way.
It seemed straight, it seemed right,
it felt good.
I was dizzy from happiness.
I never stopped to realize my swooning was my own doing;
running down this road with you in
one
giant
loop.

.
What is a poet to do
when his favourite muse
faints whilst making love,
a victim of passions fuse.

To carry on regardless?
Perhaps slap her lovely cheek?
Mouth 2 mouth no tongue?
Or maybe implore her to speak?

A lesser poet
shakes her anxiously
and writes a verse about prowess and spooning.

A True poet
carries on regardless
and writes a sonnet about his muse and swooning.



© Pagan Paul (23/05/18)