My poet friends, I’m ailing.
some sickness, stern and silent
has found me, and I’m failing
to still this storm so violent
in my soul.
My goddesses – the Muses.
(I’d met while waves were weeping)
My rhymes, if one peruses,
will shout: “these girls are sleeping
in your soul!”
My life’s a solemn sonnet,
a desert bleak and barren.
No flower grows upon it,
no royal rose of Sharon
like of old.
My lines of youthful yearning
have lost their gleam and glimmer.
My verse, once bright and burning,
exudes a sluggish shimmer
oh, so cold.