Ode to the Lost Muse

What remains to be said of this maker of verses?
You inquire after his diversion, his hobby?

His true reflection has faded from this world,
A world that transacts only in hunger,
Where the coin of wisdom holds no currency,
And no dawn breaks for the enlightened mind.

He is fed the bitter gall of conformity, mistaking it for sacred nectar.
Fool! Cast off this borrowed robe!
Better to don the humble cloth of the honest laborer,
And tend to the simple, sacred truths of the hearth.

Behold the hollow man of this barren age,
His life stripped of all its golden resonance.
For he bartered his childhood wonder—his priceless muse—
For a handful of dust, and called it art.