My poor, poetic stream has ceased
The poet in me has deceased
Within my garret’s graveyard gloom
He rots like corpse in toxic tomb
My poems now are paltry things
They’re weak and worn and wear no wings
Caked hard, with cruellest, crystal crust
They crumble into dirt and dust
My stanzas set like stagnant sun
With rhymes, they have no race to run
For ink has curdled and congealed
Set hard as sword or soldier’s shield
My compositions cannot flow
Compacted, as they are in snow
Ice-bound inside a glacial glade
In shadow land of sunless shade
My poor poetic stream subsides
Turns off like tap and turns like tides
The poet, in me, meets no more
With muse upon her sacred shore
She says she cannot make ends meet
So sells herself upon the street
Says all her dreaming days are dead
Now poet rots alone unread