The fact is, this is not the same As once it was; the magic ink Stirs less of me as time leaves lines So deeply carved in me. I think The beauty may be lost for now The muse steps forward, takes her bow; But here I write Despite, despite…
And you are why I write My pen ink-poison dipped Unsettling, hopeless sight. May muses thus be gripped, Transfixed as blood flows out Where wing-like pen was clipped. And may I never doubt The force of pouring ink To ease the come-about Of everything I think On paper, writ in…