‘Twas a muse who rendered my words useless;
Those I believed most sacred impotent
‘Fore her indifference, and each success
Tainted by reality: a heart rent;
Left without the one thing it desires;
Unable to woo, and incapable
Of forgetting; left burning in fires
Stoked by my own hand – inescapable
Torment. The pen, they say, wields more power
Than a sword, but passionate language pales
Compared to self-doubt, and fortune lours
O’er my naiveté as love lies veiled.
The scars of this lesson may never heal;Wounds remaining forever uncongealed.