If Furies were muses, what poet would

dare the empty page? tongue stuck in dry cheek,

brain electric with fear, yet thrilled to seek

glory against their rage. what laurel could

then suffice to crown our versed heads? or should

we boldly sing our yawp for silent bleak

awards of empty lauds? no longer chic

despite traditions so long-lived have withstood

until recently the facile, fickle,

fragile flights of popular poesy –

evolutions: pretentious fads that tickle

new definitions a fortnight, faux assay

of what is barely realized, each ripple

but a gnat’s buzz to Parnassus’ Poesy.

copyright DM Pitchford 2022