The muse left her mark on me,
but you can't see it.
It's buried deep
down inside me,
in a place where I hide
& contemplate
the meaning of the universe,
write endless verses
to recreate her meaning.

But maybe there is none.
Maybe it is what it is
& we meant nothing.

I think I know the meaning
to the ancient mystery,
it seems so clear to me.
Can't you see it too,
my fellow odists?
Broken hearts
are just what they are,
painful reminders
of what we lost.

And now,
sad poets
only
have written words
to tell the others
of such travesty.