I will not suffer you, who stole my muse,
To sing no praises higher than your own;
No calling on past favours to atone
These present insults won that I should lose.
It's not for my poor artistry to choose,
When patience wears its sole so thinly grown;
What words should braze and buckle all I've known,
So I might suffer you, who stole my muse?
My muse did as the sky does in the rain,
And darker as the sun's last rays withdrew,
Into the black of heaven's empty anger;
No inspiration lives with me and you.
    These words will cry upon my soul's last hunger,
    And drown alone as long as I remain.

- November 30,2005

David Zvekic

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/font-color-880000-as-long-as-i-remain-petrarchan/