Sonnet

Do false muses lead my poet’s voice?
An addiction to confusion drives my art
(And music, drugs, and matters of the heart)
To sell my complex ego as more than noise.

The worth in notes I take when torn apart,
Writ in third person as a pretentious choice
To cover up a self-defleting poise,
Is knowledge of the life I wish to start.

But can’t. I should stay calm? It’s not so bad
While Milton complained of too little flowers
That I too much, in my world Rimbaud’s dead:

His silence makes us grave and drives us mad,
Resolves, if not, to reach the patient powers
Of prolonging our desperate search instead.