The words don't come as easy anymore, As if the very act of utterance Has now become a chore. Words that once slithered From my mind and from my tongue, Seem wrapped in insignificance. Like the vacuous distance Twixt our planet and our Sun.
Oh yes, There are enough faint marks That we can trace constellations In the quiet of the dark. Finding meaning that was never there, Seduced by mediocrity With just a pinch of natural flair.
I feel the muse has died, The last ember of a humble Fire, Now fuel deprived. So I shall trawl through the Musings of others. To find a spark and kindle My lovers. The spoken and written word, Perhaps entwined With a musical accord.
Perchance then? If my ego may be silent Perhaps I could take pen again Assault the salient! Then if determinism agrees I may once more feel the words Flow through me like the breeze. I will ink my conscience once more. Till my mind is left adrift, Treading water to Distant shores.