Where is my muse today?
I stare out windows at the grey
Wasteland filled with rain.
Where did the fervor go?
   Did it fly away,
To rain sodden trees,
   To fall and quench clay,
From budding twigs and stunted
    Leaves?
Where is the fire today?
Lifes cold, so dull and plain.
If I pray for warmth, will it stay,
Or be extinguished by the rain?
Where is the vigor,
   That filled my days in youth?
Why won't it manifest in adult figure?
   Was it exhausted by the search for truth?
Truth, what is it?
Is it found in flowers,
Or does each man write his own,
Sitting in a shady bower?
Truth, what is it?
   Will I find it if I pray?
So many questions, and here I sit.
   Where is my muse today?
I stare out windows at the wasteland,
Rain sodden trees, stunted leaves, all
   Grey,
Life made of clay, and will, to
   Undersand,
Questions posed by a spring day.