I Had Planned On Being Angry

All your muses come and go,
Like flowers in a kitchen vase,
Changing with your fickle taste
For something bold or droll or chaste
To inspire florid words to flow.

Fiery locks or ocean eyes
Hearkening your tender heart
To piece together formless art.
And all these phrases you impart
To her, to hear her lovers' sighs.

And when her presence fails to evoke
Your pretty speech and fancy lies,
You send her on through dismal skies,
Ice cream melts before her eyes,
And she recalls each word you spoke.

You are broken and you are whole,
The lover of beauty so surreal,
The dreamer of things one cannot feel,
The player of hands one would not deal.
You are the artist of the soul.