Poem – Where My Muse Used to Be

A demon ate my muse,

Swallowed her up whole,

And left me to pick up the pieces.

Shards of untold stories;

Crumbs of opening verses;

A word here and there — incohesive at best;

Pictures without colours;

Shapes without form.

But the demon is full and happy, it seems.

Building a home inside of me,

Right where my muse used to be.

© Shyla Fairfax-Owen

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