I have no swan song; words desert me now
That I have lost my youthful poet’s soul.
I have no will to sing one anyhow;
My heart’s as empty as a beggar’s bowl.
Such poor unhappy lines as I might pen
Cannot but show the dearth of feeling there,
As they fall flat and fizzle out again
And again, without their former flair.
And though they aptly show my poverty
Of spirit, passion, and creative fire,
This alone does not make poetry,
No more than ashes make a funeral pyre.
No Swan Song by Christopher Courtley,
From Thirteen Black Roses: Gothic Romantic Poetry