The ghost of Ben Jonson draped itself across my troubled dreams last night
buying the rounds in a strange pub, blue mermaids and bagpipes on the juke box
angry in his critique of my style
"abandon excess and ye kill yer muse" he raved and waved the glowing green absinthe in my face.
Crazed I staggered and swayed as I pushed to defend my pace reciting odd rhymes in iambic pentameter to impress this specter of gone days
with both rough hands he grabbed my face, intent eyes pleading as he begged "use thy own voice boy"
My heart raced in the darkness, I awake
you are the poet his voice faded away
Aren't we all I said to empty space
reached for my glass and went to pour myself a drink