Satellites replace those ancient, dull stars,
moving and zooming through the depths of my heart
searching for the muses
who left me when you did
"We'll never get anything through to this kid."
Adieu, Adieu, to the helpless muse,
Lamenting the loss of that romantic who died,
from that moment you decided to tell her goodbye.
moving about in and around the seams
groans the satellite,
with its gray colors, and lackluster sheen
given, this search is as hapless, as unfair,
take into account that no muse is really there...