[personal profile] wot_i_wrote
What good's a poet when he's lost for words?
There are no rhymes for silent reverie.
A song without a lyric's for the birds:
their chatter wakes but doesn't inspire me.

My muse has left; her leaving was the spark
that lit my fuse, that set my mind aflame,
that launched my mental rocket in its arc
and then went out - the metaphor's to blame.

Two dozen sonnets, some of them quite good,
burned from my pen, my soul they did convey.
My love, my loss, my anger understood.
Now, "having writ", I've nothing left to say.

I turn the page, but all the words that come
are just te-tum te-tum te-tum te-tum.
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wot_i_wrote

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