The Barrel That Once
Was Full To Bursting With Inspiration,
Now Rolls Empty Across
The Hard Cement
Of A Cold Cellar Floor.
That Oaken Cask,
Sticky With Has-Been Words.
The Taste Of Sweet Wine,
Vinegar Soured
On A Useless Tongue,
Lies In A Pool Of Silt;
Rotting Once Proud, Shaped Wood.
Those Metal Bands Rust
As My Art
Now Urinates Pools
Of Anaemic Blood