Muse-free survival...
I am, not more, a master weaver of stories,
Since the time, i have, lost, my fairy finger tip,
My Muse, who, has left, me, to my inner selfies,
Full of her absence, cracking, as the bleakness whip...
All, is, overwhelming sense of powerlessness,
When, i, tearless, keep seeking, in that desert storm,
Her, residual track, as my defunct noblesse,
Still, enslaved, in her intoxicating art form...
Ego, is, teasing myself, about such doomsday,
Especially as, i am, no more, than Moon dust,
A remnant, from time, when, genius, has been my say...
Thus, the worst, is, that, from then, noone more to entrust,
With inspiring me, throughout, the stargate mirror,
Without which, i am, just, a wordsmith, made closed door...
(C) Tenebrio August 15, 2015 at 10 : 15 P.M...
