The Perpetual Ruse...

I’ve never really asked,

‘What makes me write?’
At least, not in earnest,
Why question your sole joy?

It has remained masked,
Through the day and night,
And may it long do, lest,
I should only prod to destroy.

I believe I’ve been tasked,
And see no reason to fight,
My only zest during unrest,
My reverie out of each ploy.

Yes, at times, I have basked,
And I will – a trivial foresight
– vaunt wearing this life vest,
 Succor as I await Charon’s hoy.

What is it that will inspire
Me? Who’s to be my muse?
I intend not to enquire,
Why retire from the perpetual ruse?