Stale my poetry, and dead
The Muse I had of yore!
My tongue is parched; my hands are cold;
My heart is dull and sore.
No words nor creativity
Come flowing to my mind,
And sweet caresses for my page
I can no longer find.
From time to time a bright mirage
Will make my feet fly fast
To seek the place and seize the thought –
Yet when I come, 'tis past.
What struggles now, to write a verse,
When formerly 'twas gay!
Alas that now I cannot think
Of any words to say.
~
July 3, 2008.
2 comments:
This poem seems quite the oxymoron, for though it speaks of dryness it's very good poetry!
I had forgotten about this blog. I'm glad I rediscovered it... and discovered your new poetry!
Thank you, Monnie!
Post a Comment