Hello my past-loved muse. I am not creator now.
Remember days ago and you'll not see me there.
Success to be found in my life, yes.  
Let's walk my wasteland, my mecca to be.
Close your eyes of wind begins to stir.
The stagnation is chilling.
There to my left is sterile ground.
  Abyss in the sea of nonexistence.
Stirring. They souls not yet pulled into my catastrophe.
I spend the nights swimming along voids.
And I waste my days questioning true North.

There is something just below my heart.
Though you say I own no such thing, I feel a virus dancing.

Though you tell me I am bones and rot.
I feel life and discipline festering.