Sick Muses

My words have lost the pleasing sway of the women who walk softly.
No longer do they whisper or entreat, but stare dumb
Empty of all, but the faint guttering of a flame near extinguished.
They have forgotten sun and song and dance
Are hollowed of the joy which animates them as blood does me.
I leave my door ajar, but they do not go
Only mutely plead for a sustenance I cannot know to give.

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