Life's Offense and the Muses As Escape

I sit with pen in hand this downcast morn; and search the Muses for more enraptured songs; songs of great cheer, of memories heartworn, to banish the spirits of inflicted wrongs; before, no songs could quell the ruthless onslaughts of life; so abject, I was comfortless; unsaved but for them hovering in my thoughts, wooing me with lines that eased the hopelessness. So, wherefore am I life's steel lightning rod; a man, and lone soul, whose quiet defense the world longs to disrupt—invade? (So awed am I, that viciously it takes offense.) From such place, the Muses grant their rare escape; where, in peace, poets can safely take their shape.