A sagging Gladius wallows inside me, limply,
It's rotting in its own wretched flaccidity,
I see others around me nurturing bounds of fruitful irises,
Some even mother sycamore, burgeoning with vigour, effortless as chaste kisses,
Tender fertilizer blots my chin in a bloodied marling,
I ingest the stolen soil, even when I feel the white sting of my innards' snarling,
So I'll inject myself with litres upon litres of putrid compost,
Only for my gladius to continuing shrivelling within my innermost,
It's stem-deep in nutrients, and is none the less decayed,
Atop the valley, even in the passing June, it stays, wilted withered and frayed,
Now, all I'm left with is the curdle of wetland moss festering in my blood,
Weighted with this fetidity, I let my gladius go, dead, in peace and clotted mud.
Feel free to interpret as you please, however my poem is originally written is about your potential/inspiration dying and no matter what you try to do to keep it alive (Basically its about Burnout). Even when you attempt to steal ("I ingest the stolen soil") and use other elements of another's work, you still feel uninspired and are not driven to be creative at all even when people around you seem to have the ability to do it so easily.
