He, without his Muse

wailing guitars
sounds reaching for the stars
creating poetry along the way
caressing wings of angels
soaring with the wind
his fingers plucked
the music out of the strings
like magical wands

then he stumbled
he rolled on the ground
dirt on his shirt
muck on his hair
his nose were browned
by  turds strewn on satin sheets
his illusions gone
love life and laughter left..

his fingers trembled on a chord
never more did they sing
no magic poured
from the strings.