Death of Muse: A Poem
Drought. The hot breeze releasing a sigh
in an agony of last signs of life everywhere
but not sad enough to inspire heavens to cry
just a smothering and heavy, merciless hot air.
Two scorpions fighting for a shade in a skull
with only a cry of buzzards to be heard around
then a crack of a branch with its fall sounding dull
and nothing else to give out even a slightest sound.
He woke up with a throat burning and dry
instantly regretting that he waited so long
with chaos in thoughts and an urge to cry
couldn't think of anything that wasn't wrong.
An image of a coffin now flooding his dry mind
with beautiful lady or what was left of her charm
while heavy chapel bells somewhere far behind
kept raping the night silence like a brutal alarm.
Then he took a better look and recognized his Muse
now remembering how lately she was slowly dying
along with inspirations that he would want to use
now fading away leaving no wish for retrying.