Sonnet: Sins Of The Sun Poem by Richard St. Clair

I wait impatiently and hope the muse
Will strike and cause my pen to move; across
The page it crawls, but only to confuse
Things, mingling the sublime art with the dross.

The day is quiet — now the warming sun
Shines through the window on my naked feet,
And though its course across the room is run
My muse still withers in the lingering heat.

Inspiration comes on cloudy days
More easily, I think — but why? I plead
My ignorance: Must be the sun’s bright rays
That dull the songs lying fallow in my head.

But if my muse the sun refuse to bless,
It seems a friendly villain nonetheless.