Requiem for a Muse

Tracing the faint henna of smeared ink stains,
I feel quiet tumors swell in my heart,
words searing like vinegar in my veins.

Senile muses mouth their banal refrains
as they learn to forget their dying art,
tracing the faint henna of smeared ink stains.

The spread of fear's pervasive cells explains
why, feverish, I tear verses apart,
words searing like vinegar in my veins.

I clutch my pen but it barely restrains
the cancerous growths at their ancient start,
tracing the faint henna of smeared ink stains.

Distant threnody of autumnal rains:
I watch blighted trees weep as they depart,
words searing like vinegar in my veins.

Language rendered barren, and what remains?
Only shriveled thoughts, cankered through each part,
tracing a smeared henna of blue ink stains,
words searing like vinegar in my veins.


A/N: Writing a villanelle? Challenging. Overcoming writer's block? Arduous. Doing the latter by writing the former? A task worthy of Sisyphus. Critique is greatly appreciated. June 3, 2010.