Poetic Death

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