My muse is hooked on dark pastiche
It is a foul and thoughtless creature
Words from another are now unleashed
And my form is devoid of feature
Where once she enticed me with creative flourish
Now my words are cut low: harsh and malnourished
I’ve nothing to say, to inspire or sway
And the pages are blistered with pain
There comes only fear, rot and decay
And the occasional deluge of rain.