DEATH OF A MUSE
i killed my muse the other day,
twas a slow death she died each day,
tried hard to hold on to life bit i,
relentlessly cut her loose and watched her die.
Now i sit alone with my empty slate staring,
at the quill between my finger desperately waiting
for the voices in my head to make landfall on paper
only silence as the ink dries in a full pitcher
locked inside without an outlet of reprieve,
the ghosts in my head beg and scream for release
they claw and scratch and bite from within
till my mind is numb from the burning and bleeding
i reach for my unused quill nad in pain i cry
for my fingers now shrunken and bent from leprosy
indeed no worse fate can i assume
than for a penman to kill his beloved muse.
by Frank
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