A poem about fickle poets and their muses. Entropy: everything tends to disorder and chaos.

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What to do?
When your muse
Is someone else’s love,
Your love is no longer
Your muse?
When life’s sweet corruption tempts,
And duty’s grip holds firm,
Like gravity:
Easy to break,
Impossible to escape.

Tonight, I mourn, a little,
As the asymmetric dream dissipates,
And I cling, sadly,
To its hypnotic residue:
The impression you left
On my soft heart.

An idea quenched,
An orbit lost,
Unpaired, excluded,
Entropic happiness
Decaying with time’s cruel erosion.

James is a pseudonym for a local writer who, after a long hiatus, is exploring poetry again.

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