Having finished reviewing my oeuvre,
I admit, and painfully confess,
the absence of my poetic muse,
causes me a great distress.
I string a rhyme and perchance another,
but they refuse to give me joy,
the situation therein is oh so stale,
despite the inventions I employ.
Accepting my foregone conclusion,
my loss no longer hid from sight,
I lay my quill among the embers,
and tear the page; I've lost my life.