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A Despairing Cry to My Lost Muse.
by Christopher Ingham

Heavy air hangs limp against my window
Of the night, a shroud embracing darkly
The rotting corpse of imagination.
Nothing stirring within the eternal
Tomb of a mind, once flexible, fertile,
Alive, blooming within the rose garden
Of light and endless possibility.

I hear your springtime laughter echoing
In my mind as you ran to embrace me
In the abundance of our new found love.
You were Primavera, the essence
Of my rebirth and I danced with joy
And delight as you caressed my soul,
Made my words sparkle and fly heavenwards.

Then listless leaves of withered autumn blew
Across the courtyard of my disaffection,
Their bones sharp against the translucent sere.
I stood alone, calling, the wind oozing
Cold through my pores, gripping my heart with fear.
Your music no longer filled the air
Only my words echoing hollowly.

Now I sit, winter deep in my despair.
Pen in hand, I stare at the page, virgin
White, and dream of our idyllic summer
When, nymph like, we romped naked and free
In our splendid garden of creation,
And sang songs of joyous innocence,
Unrestrained unstained by lust or desire.



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