“Pen to Paper; Muse do your Magic
Give me stories, may they be tragic
For the shadow is my greatest delight
For my mind finds it at the speed of light”
The poet’s hand has no place for joy
For the metaphor is misfortune’s toy
How then would the muse consent
To a verse in relation to being content?
Zeus’ daughters are easier pleased
With death, loss and love diseased
But I shall not try to delight Saturn
But carry my own cheerful baton!
The Child of Night is exiled from here
Pain and distress, run away in fear
For I bring the other side of life on page
Feel the glory of delight, out of its cage.
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