When his muse died, the poet was heartbroken.
He drank, he wrote verses, but found no comfort.
One night he sneaked into the cemetery.
He broke into her tomb and stole her urn.
It was past the witching hour when the poet ate his muse, one spoonful at a time.
Some of you may remember that a while back I used to publish 50-word stories. Here is a selection of some of my best. I also gathered them in a book – grab it on Amazon.uk or Amazon.us.
boy with a hat 
Euw!!!! That’s a form of cannibalism, isn’t it?
I think that in our days it is called “binge eating”.
Hahaha! Gross! You crack me up, Vincent!
love your response…
Randy
Did the divine inspiration then visit his dusty old writing desk?
We will never know.
At least he avoided bad luck, by eating after the witching hour. ~ Mia
I doubt that it will spare him from indigestion, though. And if we burn black and white photos, won’t the ash resemble the substance of the muse? ‘Poetry is just the evidence of life,’ says Leonard Cohen. ‘If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.’
In that case, here’s to ash! Vincent, enjoy the rest of your Friday.
Arrgh. What filling Like yesterday’s dinner repeating on me.tale. Love it.
Randy