Collected Soul

My friend is away
and I can't let go of the present
So I put Collective Soul
on the media player
and I fill my yellow cup
with bourbon and ice
and I try to break the trance
But the poetry has me
and won't let go
and I laugh at my audacity
in thinking I'm capable of ignoring the voice
What's it all about Alfie
if it's not about the inspiration
How cerebral can a man be
before he dies of lack of imagination
and what kind of muse would stand by
and let that happen
There's not a muse in the world
that doesn't know how
to jolt a poet back to life
Maybe it doesn't matter
It might just be about the trance
and the power of reality
over the imagination
Is one greater than the other
Perhaps not
For in the poets mind
they can't be separated