for a poem, a new one that eclipses all those ever I did wrote. I sit and sip awaiting the excavation rebirth of my muse, her second coming, her reincarnation, I dig dig farther down trying to make her appear out of the mud, and she did, for a minute, said you killed me you idiot, with your misinterpretations of what I whispered in your ears that night, and told the whole world. Guess I am ******? guess I should have listened better. My *** still itches.