My Muse Hath Slain Herself
My muse hath slain herself
Upon the blade of my suffering!
Picked from shards of my shattered heart
And cast herself to nothing!
Chocked with dust are all those empty words
That now are mere’ a muttering.
And now through that reigning darkness
My mind, writhing, is stumbling.
I hath forsaken thee now, present!
How I yearn for the past or tomorrow!
For, all the pain within this moment
Is pain, and pain is sorrow!
And of this sorrow, I am sick…unto death!
As am I of the many miles of tears I follow.
Free me now, or strike me dead
With a hollowed heart, sadness can not hallow!
