My Poetic Hat
The Muse who once oiled my poetic way
and with her seditious match lit my fuse,
who graced my couch, and pressed beside me lay
licking my mind with words of florid hues,
has with one flick of her Medusa hair
cast to perdition my most urgent needs.
I grope for her flesh but find chill despair
and shrug, smiling, while my jilted heart bleeds.
No phrases sage and clever come to mind,
nor philosophies to impress my peers,
no triptych or villanelle do I find
and I weep dry and bitter hopeless tears.
Without my Muse, my poetic bonnet,
all I can do is write a damned sonnet.