Death of a Salesgirl
Murdered, slashed, cut down in her prime,
my muse is gone, I can’t even rhyme.
Succulent morsels came from my lips,
I used to write such beautiful scripts.
She was always there, my constant friend,
now she has gone, I can’t comprehend.
With a blank stare I sit at my desk,
Composing poems so bad and grotesque.
I never dreamed that I could loose,
until I lost my precious muse.
Please come back, my muse, my friend.
There’s so much left that must be penned.












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