The Dead Muse

My muse doesn't turn into a poem

My muse walks through labyrinths of mayhem…

My muse isn't a prized nocturne

My muse is fiddling fermata meeting the wrong turn…..

Isn't this how it happens in sad prose?

Like shooting stars burn to ashes,

My muse catches fire in eulogy

And I to my muse, ask in despair—

So what's left of that is I?

There's hidden hunters under my collarbone;

 Exiled words that went to die—

My muse speaks in gold, black and grey

Weaving silence from eclipsed day…..

Tell me, if my words worth so-

To linger over pages like a passed on dream?

Where's my muse now?

To haunt my dreams?

To paint my woes over poetry's grave?

To garner stardust out of aeons hurt?

They say my muse is dead….

In my defence,

The dead muse did so—

A myriad little times….