“My muse died at 2 a.m.
she hadn't been well in weeks,
writing drab, soulless poetry
without alluring alliteration,
any references to the Greeks.
Too pooped to savor the flavors
of a good, old fashioned write,
she chose in her frustration,
to abandon her life station,
to just give up the fight.”
So left to draw from memories
of her great creative essence,
I’ll paste together bits...
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