I sit inside on sunny mornings,
Facing a blank paper I hate,
I wish to write, then sleep in my bed,
But I can't, for my muse is dead;
She left me earlier, many a times,
For short periods, in my poetic prime,
She always returned, and gave me a lot,
It seems now she's dead, or she simply forgot;
I long for her, I want her back,
That I may write again, perhaps for her,
'tis not to happen, she's gone forever,
My quill lies restless like an arrow in a quiver;
My muse is dead
And I'm left heartbroken,
The thoughts she afforded me
Shall never again be spoken;
She can never be replaced,
She was one of a kind,
Now my senses wither away,
I think I'm going blind;
Like mountain water
was her voice, so sweet,
She mesmerised, as I sat listening,
'twas a treat;
Morning dew reminds me
of her smile, so refreshing,
As rays of a glowing sun that passed
my skin, gently caressing;
Her eyes were quite unique,
Seemed to be from tales - de Sade's,
They pierced each perimeter
and saw through charades;
Her neck seemed so delicate,
Coveted by many a vampire,
Sometimes she hurt herself,
Which brought out my ire;
But I haven't mentioned what I liked the most,
Her mind, intelligence - compareable to mine,
Visibly vulnerable, but the toughest I knew,
Now she's gone like summertime dew;
Hark, do I hear steps? Are they in my mind?
Or is it really her, approaching from behind,
I've turned to check, but I cannot
see her, for she left me blind.
