Death Of The Muse


Bare patches of sand like ringworm
Appear in the garden of my thoughts.
Hangs in darkness like black smoke
As I hear this passing away.

As this darkness looms about 
I am blind and think of the roses,
But clutching I feel it free
And I feel it moving with so much dust.

They grab onions for me, unwrapping
And tilt everything in my throat,
Saying the band must be loosened,
I’m no longer feeling to their spices.

But does the spur dies, no
It leaves with the man, immortal.
This departure only has seemed
To be a dazzling dawn.