The Poets Head

In my experience

The Poet's head is dead,
Where once he made amber sunsets with words,
If
One could stutter on paper
He would.

Bright shining iridescent seascapes
Escape
His
Unfortunate pen
He drowns in his
Emotive tears
Stained oily in ink.

He knew once
It never came from him; his muse delighted.
But distracted by self absorbance
He embraced himself.

He forgot
his gift
was
a gift.

And his muse was called away.