The Poet's Reply

It's not an easy thing,
to take up again
the poet's task
after ignoring the call so long.

With every newly met beauty
or wonder that presented itself to the mind,
a promise was made to the pen,
but these promises were not kept
and now the Muses dress in neon orange and jump and wave their arms for attention.

So, chastised, with scars upon my back
and calluses upon my heart's eyes,
I heed thy plea, O pen
and let your ink flow
like blood from a fresh wound.

What a wondrous thing it is,
that scribbled lines on a page
can convey a thought,
and more than a thought,
an image.

So let us be reacquainted,
Mistress Inspiration,
though I have grown fat and slow this summer.
You're still as lovely as ever.

Look! The words still come,
as weak and in need
of His beauty to reinforce theirs
as ever.

The angel song still calls.
Pen in hand, I prepare for battle.