Lost Cargo

Who speaks with such quick tongue
That the lark seems a plodding beast of burden?
What can be said will be said, If not by you
Than who? Pray tell.

To close mine eyes
And hear your voice
Close within my mind
That is my punishment.

There is a place within
Where your tongue lies
Wagging, yapping, like
The shrill bark of a small dog.

And I seek to employ
Every contrivance of imagination
To fabricate a suitable and effective muzzle
But with no success.

How often must good fortune
Have sailed steadfastly toward thy open port
Only to be confused and
Diverted at the last moment

Thinking it would surely run aground,
Beached near an applauding troupe of
Mean-tempered spectators
Bent upon reselling lost cargo?