Deluded

My poetry's a passing phase.
Dumb dreaming on deluded days,
when I (misguided by some muse,
who lies, and tells me, “you can’t lose”)

pour out my passion on the page,
unleash it from its gilded cage.
As if I were another Keats,
enthroned with rhyme’s elect elites.

But I've been duped, like naive child,
by beauty blinded and beguiled.
And when I wake one misty morn,
I’ll read my lines and sneer, then yawn.

Yes, poetry’s a passing phase,
a remnant of that youthful haze
that to my ageing heart still clings,
like songbird, that no longer sings.