Portrait 87

Now that no carousel surrounds me.
And there are none to disagree,
Am I become too centered
On this island now absurd
That it only tempts catastrophe?

Was the music in my mind so sweet
That no longer do I dare compete?
Shall I hang here like a gallows bird,
In fear of uttering any word
That puts me in the judgment seat?

Have I designed a place so sacrosanct,
That I fear not one idea I plant
Will come to be matured,
Much less literatured;
Now suffering myself some sycophant?

How I long for that peerless circus
To power my muse through impetus;
That I lay upon one more brochure
Again, her retired signature,
And not fear the deed too dangerous.