A Muse

In the theatre of the mind, tune is religion,
And all periphery players must be screened.
Cast as doubt, the robed are most naked,
The exposed, mysteriously dressing about.

No practice for the volcanoes melody,
No beginning to the deafening scripture.

Sing for the boy with crutches,
And sing for the aimlessly able,
Preach to the shoeless princess,
Performing in a horseless stable.

Peerlessly tried, and too tired to quit,
The blue moon sits, watches the day,
As hopeless dreams are shuffled by bass,
With love on stage, with rings to shatter.

The gentry genuflect to the peach,
Speaking certainly of the myopic ale.
Knowledge is bought by the bustard,
His choices, provoking the catatonic.

When the current finds you, no vest shall save,
Accepted when given the shovel to your grave.