Muse is still alive

 

Till there is sunshine

And, money to buy books

And, muse is still alive

There is music.

Even in the boarding pass

to the next town.

Gaining everything,

I am the pianist, the writer

composing numerous ballads

All organised.

The ink dries up just when it should.

creating ephemeral masterpieces.

Shun the artist, its the Muse!

On the Muse's Gloomy sunday

Books fall off bookshelf

moon and Mirror catastrophically breaks

The Sun and the Lamp useless

The savant's memory all empty.

Artist's good and vehement atoms, 

hired from the Muse

He dreamt losing-

Remained.

The fear of no music, created

one pert symphony.

Then I completed writing 

the story of my mourning

As high as Uluru Rock.

The Muse is still alive.

In the previous compositions

In the drug 

In the memories, the muse is alive.

'Ruminating over foible happiness'

becomes the Muse.