Decommissioned Pen

Trite query from pen so weary My muse has blown a fuse The light that once shined has declined My fleeting hope hangs from a rope A vagabond whose muse did abscond With illuminating spark leaving him in the dark Out on a lark; my scuttled engine in park Night and day I recon the lexicon But the literary discourse is no recourse To a stray itinerate who has lost his way The sty in my eye has begun to cry The pus is no fuss; my page is dry A rhyme for a dime would be sublime Perhaps, a bartered verse in my purse Will break the curse, or still worse Might stain with shame my languishing pain Incarcerating my fraudulent pen in the critic's den Oh, if words would rain then my brain drain Would filter inspiration to my perspiration The fertile strain if only but a grain Would fertile sprouts shoot extinguishing my doubts