An angel was my muse,
but she has lost her wings
and I know not where she lies tonight-
probably helping some poor artist sing
Because of her I wrote of love
and I wrote of loss.
Now all I wrote lies in a bin
with the rest of the trash I've tossed
Now the only reason I've to write
is to write that I've lost all reason
and hope that the fall of my writing
has a spring alike the seasons
