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Frank P Whyte

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  My Wretched Muse
by Frank P Whyte
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Rated "G" by the Author.

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Recent poems by Frank P Whyte
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           >> View all 318





Do you know my heart,
Oh maiden of the night,
Prayers to and for you
Seeking mercy and respite
From the agonizing days of light.
You alone are the vision
Which occupies my mind,
Lending promise to my sorrow
Bent by suffering sublime.
The smile is only disguise,
The laughter but a ruse,
For I know so little
Of what I might do
With the tragic loss of Muse.
She was nothing more
Than a tramp;
Disloyal and promiscuous at best,
As she partied her way through the darkest nights,
Leaving me without my rest.
She scoffed at my feeble complaints
And heckled me for my needs,
Taking far more than she ever gave,
Such were her evil deeds.
Now I am but a shell of man,
Ink has truly run dry,
Rumors have the whore here and there,
Spreading her seed far and wide.
This darkened den is my prison,
Smelling of cigarettes and rye,
And this pestilence, I think,
Will  follow me…
Til’ the wretched day I die.

 

 

 


Frank P. Whyte Poetry


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Reviewed by Cryssa C 1/18/2011
If this poem is any indication of your muse being dead, then I hope that my muse dies as well... :~)
Cryssa

Books by
Frank P Whyte



Hearts of Gold

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Remedies of Choice

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