Grasping Fruits

My memories take me to when I used to find joy in creating songs, parodied.

I’d tell a story, copying the theme, keeping the cadence unvaried.

Then, as I recall, my muse commanded me, it sacredly decreed,

that I write my own tales, and draw those who are curious, to read.

*

Since I was young, my soul said, “write good thoughts, if you wish to be freed.”

I was driven to follow, and willingly accepted, this sacred creed.

The quest, to find and express rare hope, was one I could not impede.

Focusing on good thoughts, instead of dark, sated my need.

*

I recall daring to think I was a muse’s personal steed,

that my yearning for learning and writing, is held within the blood that I bleed.

Then I questioned if it is my ego or mind that I yearn to feed,

or if seeking knowledge, to face challenges, is an indulgence of greed.

*

I remember my calling: to share good thoughts; but when deeply queried,

realized fearfully, thoughts can go many ways. That made me wearied.

Words let light enter closed windows, of the mind, only when they meet a need.

I questioned my faith in sharing. My thoughts became atrophied.

*

Rooted in reality often leaves me blind, deaf, dumb and dizzied.

But, when I submit to my muse, I become unstymied.

Visions stem forth. Words are scribed with god’s speed.

They form a branch, where thoughts can blossom and seed.

*

I climb to grasp fruits of the world’s knowledge and life, and find myself a poet, treed.

The hunter and hunted are the hunt, Agreed?

A kiss is the fruit of the kissed and kisser - weak kneed.

Thoughts and words move us dear reader, let's direct where they lead.