without a muse

A poet without a muse
send broken limbs to lions
covered by the blues of the sky
a past life given up the ghost
old habit stain his teeth
the carnage remaining
leaves him longing
only thing left
is the hole of the foundation
his words leave scars
and the voices insult
and sometimes compliment
the poet in his steady current
of productive anti-social behavior
the press will dispute what is written
yet the poet still write marathons
to be discovered