The muse is gone, and for him I fawn so to once more see beauty in the light of dawn


    Is that so wrong to seek passion from song before the wonder is struck and says so long


    How many words are there which I might prepare for this bland nothing of pale compare


    Hollow, the longing to be filled with anything


    Aching, to feel even pain''s bitter sting


    Broken, a man crushed by suffering


    Empty, am I even a living thing?


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    My dull verses grow the same, bleary shapes made from pain from a mind hardly sane


    How often do I think these thoughts, far more often than I aught, all again it''s for naught


    Where are these greener fields, what eats these tasty meals, who enjoys these boring reels


    A fresh breath of air cuts through this despair and I see a reason to care


    But I blink and it''s gone while I linger on


    Another day spent confused, again I''ve been used, my aspirations refused


    Yet still I can''t break this cycle, the drip freeze drip of an icicle


    I miss the pain of work, the skilled challenge. I miss my fallen brothers I''ve yet to avenge


    I miss so many and so much, perhaps these bitter memories are my crutch


    To forget might be sweet, in a swift second my past I''d delete


    But what then? I''m not one to accept sour defeat.


    Would I build myself anew, pick myself up by my shoe and keep pressing through


    Who would accept me, where would I go, what would I do?


    If only I knew, I certainly wouldn''t be complaining to you.