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Death of a Muse
As cotton clouds fade under blank blackness,
I sigh as stars stare at my moon.
My breathless quill feels no pulse, but it beats,
unable to find admiration for an empty page.
I bleed tears. I've not yet cried like wailing walls,
through expressions with silent connotations,
where my life resembles personified poetry.
But, not all verses are expressed effortlessly,
as my muse's heart is misplaced in mahogany mist.
Once, I used to sprinkle magic over dead roses,
but my chiseled charm is now at war with words,
wandering among weeds in my withering flower garden.
Vinegary rain with sour snow has immolated my vocabulary's flaming blooms,
as memorable metaphors abandon me.
Pierced from thorns worn from a crown of sonnets,
I fear myself when my rhymes feel like childish crimes.
Now I cry without tears, a lifeless poet,
lost in a paradise of vivid imagery,
but powerless to write verses with substance,
so I let my words rest in peace - deceased.
Copyright ©
Silent One
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