I miss my muse; she moved away.
Her inspiration winged its way
and left me with my poet’s pen
among these melancholic men,
who wander, weeping, like a child,
with matted beard and hair grown wild
down by the side of sorrow’s stream,
where dead men, walking, dare to dream
of happy times, when muse was queen,
and laughing lines had not grown lean,
where from a gleaming, golden store
a sea of sonnets swam ashore.
My muse no longer breathes on me
with sweetest, sacred symmetry.
Without her tantalising touch
my rhymes no longer count for much.
I miss my muse, more than I thought;
I should have struggled, should have fought.
When feelings froze and wouldn’t flow;
I should have begged her not to go!
I miss my muse; she moved away.
And inspiration’s winged its way.
I’m left alone with poisoned pen
among these melancholic men.