Lost her gift of speech in a fight--with herself--
She couldn't be bribed to paint anymore--
Lofty literature of hers--very fickle, that genius--
Felt no right to sing--created empty hands--
Gradually this change crept up, the echo
like a surprise in yer trusty Lucky Strike
She couldn't taste the spirit in her throat anymore--
her spittle was bereft of magic.
Undercomforted--undernourished--
frozen. Drowned. Beaten. Lost.
Lonely, uninhabited, muddy.
Unwept, unsung, unswallowed.
Was it starvation? the other genii asked themselves,
or suicide of the inner gift? A silver bullet, a silent voice?
"No," quoth the death-preoccupied, lackluster angel (with
Hell-glazed eyes). She sang, "art murder."