the dreams are forgotten quickly
no longer a source of interest
of mystery
or even sadness
they are simply accepted and left to vanquish
into the ether
the years
the words
the search for fire
in a dormant soul
the light is flickering
the voice is quieting
the vision of a kindred spirit
is all but blind hope
the poet in me
meanders alone in his thoughts
that are short and void of secrets
he no longer hears the call
no longer seeks the path
to discovering
the perfectly articulated
thought